


Into the Grey

by Lymphadei



Series: Interpersonal Affairs [3]
Category: Fifty Shades of Grey - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, D/s relationship, Dom Sherlock, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Fifty Shades of Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Older Sherlock but not by much, Sub John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-03-30 07:58:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 109,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3929026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lymphadei/pseuds/Lymphadei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is approached by his longtime friend and flatmate, Mike Stamford to conduct an interview with Sherlock Holmes, the young, multi-millionaire CEO of Holmes Pharmaceuticals, when he falls ill. John goes in prepared to complete the interview and then forget all about it, but all of that goes out of the window when he meets the man for himself.</p><p>*Loosely based on Fifty Shades of Grey by E. L. James</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Interview

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. This is my take on Fifty Shades of Grey, Sherlock style. This is not a rewrite, however the first chapter closely follows the book, before veering off, as you will see by the end of this chapter hopefully.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edited 04/08/16
> 
>  **For new readers,** every chapter is foregoing heavy edits. Editing for this chapter is complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover photo created by the lovely and amazingly talented [aku02](http://aku02.tumblr.com)! Please go show her tumblr page some love for this wonderful work of [art!](http://aku02.tumblr.com/post/134368953435/commission-for-the-amazing-lymphadei-a-cover-for)

John was sleeping like the dead when his phone rang and he was thrust from a fitful sleep into abrupt consciousness. He shot a hand out towards the phone vibrating across the bedside table, and knocked the clock clumsily onto the ground in his haste to silence the noise.  
  
' _What the hell?_ ' John thought. Who in their right mind would call him in the middle of the night?  
  
' **Mike S.** ' The name flashed bold and bright within the otherwise pitch dark room, illuminating John's pinched features.  
  
He'd stayed up all night studying for final exams and writing long, boring papers about topics he couldn't give two shits about. Just when John had finally fallen off to sleep, his flatmate decided it was a good time to give him a ring.  
  
"Mike?" He grumbled into the phone, voice deep and raspy from disuse. "Everything alright?"  
  
John could hear as his friend shifted on the other end of the line and the dry, staticky sound of fabric sliding together. A scraping wheeze emanated from Mike's throat upon each breath. "John, thank God you answered, I thought you'd be dead to the world."  
  
' _I was_ ,' John thought irritably. He cleared his throat, hoping it would urge Mike to get on with it. If John was lucky, he might be able to go back to sleep.  
  
"I'm awake now," he stated and sat up on the bed, holding the phone to his ear with one hand, and running slow circles over his temple with the other. "Where are you?"  
  
"I'm at Kate's," Mike said, "I hadn't planned on staying, but I developed a bit of a fever today and she insisted I do. You know women, they don't think we can take care of ourselves."  
  
"Uh-huh," John grunted a half-arsed acknowledgement. He hoped that Mike wasn't feeling chatty. "Sorry to hear that, mate, but... did you need anything in particular?" He enquired.  
  
Mike coughed again, a tad louder away from the receiver, before he spoke again, short of breath. "I know you have a lot on your plate right now, but I need a huge favor."  
  
John fought to hold back a sigh. He'd already begun to feel the pull of exhaustion the words caused. "What do you need?"  
  
"I've finally managed to get an interview with Sherlock Holmes, of Holmes Pharmaceuticals, and this is one I can't cancel on."  
  
Mike paused and John closed his eyes, praying that Mike wasn't asking for what John thought he might be. But alas...  
  
"Let me guess," John began slowly. "You're sick and you want me to do the interview." He didn't bother stating his hypothesis in the form of a question. John knew Mike and _also_ knew exactly what he was trying to ask without saying as much.  
  
Mike didn't waste a moment to plead his case. "Please John, I really can't go like this." As if to provide proof, Mike loudly blew his nose and the sound carrying unpleasantly through the receiver. John wrinkled his nose in pity and disgust, and waited for Mike to proceed.  
  
"I need it for my final med paper, and if it's good enough, Professor Loughton said he'll get it published in the Daily Scientist."  
  
John groaned and fiercely suppressed the urge to throw himself backward into his pillow like an aggravated child. He scraped a hand through his tousled hair. "I know nothing about this Holmes, Mike, what am I supposed to ask him?"  
  
"Don't worry," Mike sniffled, "I've got all my questions ready. They're on the kitchen table, where I put them this morning.” He coughed. “If I miss this interview, Holmes will never agree to meet with me again!"  
  
John finally gave in and flopped onto his back with a huff. "Alright, alright, I'll do it."  
  
Mike let out a sigh of relief that tapered off with a pitiful cough. "I owe you big time, John, you're a lifesaver."  
  
"Yes, yes, now let me get back to sleep, thank you. And text me the time and location, if you will."  
  
Mike sneezed and huffed his agreement. With this, John rang off, considerably less drowsy than he'd been a minute ago. He wondered exactly how this entire thing would pan out.  
  
John was convinced that this interview was going to be a fiasco. Mike obviously was not in the right frame of mind if he was asking _John_ to conduct his meeting with Sherlock Holmes, the notoriously icy CEO of Holmes Pharmaceuticals. His personality was really all John had heard about the man, and none of them were very good things. Of course, John wasn't the type of person to judge someone based on hearsay. But if the rumors were true, John was definitely out of his league in being the one to interview Holmes.  
  
John raised his phone and peered at the screen with solemnity. **04.54**. He would have to get up in two hours anyway, so any hope of sleep was a wasted wish.  
  
His phone gave a soft ping a few moments later, indicating a text message notification.  
  
It was Mike with an address that John recognized as an address in Canary Wharf, about thirty minutes, give or take, from his flat. Mike had better be reimbursing cab fare as well.  
  
Another ping from his phone.  
  
**Mike S.**  
  
**I knw u hve classes this morning. The interview is scheduled for the aftrnoon. 14.00, dnt b lte!**  
  
John heaved a weary sigh and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  
  
Well, might as well make the most of the early morning. He yawned and made his way to the kitchen, happy, at least, to be able to make himself a full English if nothing else.  
  
\---  
  
John loathed coming to the Wharf. He loved London, but the sheer number of people always left John jittery and paranoid. He should be used to this by now. London is one of the most populated cities in the world, yet the crowds always irritated John. Every time someone bumped into him with their ridiculously expensive briefcase, he was on the brink of snapping.  
  
He stopped at a building that towered high above the rest, easily between thirty and thirty-five floors; a large steel, modernistic structure that appeared as sleek as it did imposing. At the very top, the words Holmes Pharmaceuticals stood out in bold white letters, leaving no doubt as to where John had arrived.  
  
He stood on the pavement, resisting the urge to scratch his head, confounded by the situation he found himself in. Mike always found a way of convincing John to do things he would never do otherwise. The year before, Mike was due to record a lecture given by the world's leading neuroscientist, and he'd begged off at the last minute citing familial obligations. Mike begged him to go, and although John was currently in medical school, these lectures did a better job of lulling him to sleep than enlightening him.  
  
Needless to say, John ended up on the front row along with the other journalists, falling asleep while recording the lecture for Mike. His friend could be so damnably persuasive sometimes!  
  
John took a deep breath and packed away his thoughts and gathered his courage before he stepped inside.  
  
The interior was just as elegant as the architecture suggested. Everything was all clean, sharp lines and monochromatic colours. John was scared to touch anything. Even though he had put on his best clothes—a deep, blue cashmere jumper and his least worn, but most expensive trousers—John still felt shabby and inadequate.  
  
The place was swarmed with businessmen in tailored suits and manicured women in their smart suit jackets and pencil skirts, all lost in their phones and clipboards, pushing past John as he observed in dread.  
  
On the other side of the lobby, against the far wall, a large mahogany desk stretched from wall-to-wall. One woman sat directly in the centre, ignoring a man as he attempted to dazzle her with a charming smile and a gleaming row of straight, white teeth. It was obvious that she was used to the attention and paying the man no mind as she typed away, olive eyes glued to her, thin, sleek monitor. John walked up to the desk, fingering the voice recorder in his pocket, while the other hand tightly clutched the paper of questions he was meant to ask Sherlock Holmes.  
  
The woman looked up. Her sleek, black bob stayed perfectly in place, while her vermillion lips pulled into a polite smile that failed to reach her eyes. "Welcome to Holmes Pharmaceuticals, where may I direct you today, sir?" Her voice was deeper than John had expected for a woman as tiny as she, throaty and completely professional much to the disappointment of John and his libido.  
  
"Yes, hello. I have an appointment with Sherlock Holmes for an interview." The woman showed no surprised as she held up one manicured nail and picked up the phone, swiftly pressing two buttons. "May I have your name please?" The secretary asked as she waited for an answer on the other end.  
  
"Uh, John Watson, here on behalf of Michael Stamford?" John responded carefully.  
  
She nodded, then tilted her head as she listened. John assumed there was an answer on the other end as she began speaking lowly into the receiver. The conversation was brief, and shortly after, John was directed towards a row of lifts to the left of the desk.  
  
"Up to floor thirty-four, Mr Watson. Good day." The woman offered him a winning smile, and John nodded a thank you. He pivoted and headed in the direction she pointed to where a small group had already assembled to wait for the next lift.  
  
A man in a three piece suit that John was sure cost more than his rent, gave John a sweeping once-over, probably wondering what he was doing in a place like this. John wondered the same thing. He had never felt so out of place in his life.  
  
The lift returned and they all packed in. John reached past a woman speaking rapid Mandarin into her mobile to press the button for the thirty-fourth floor. The woman paused, eyes flicking from the highlighted ‘34’ and back to John's slowly reddening face. Was Holmes one of those elusive bosses that rarely left his office, he wondered. What would warrant her bafflement?  
  
It was over as fast as it began, then the woman was murmuring into her phone as she exited at her stop on the fifteenth floor. John exhaled in relief, glad that the odd moment was over. He spent the better part of his ride watching people get on and off. Unfortunately, there was a stop on every floor on the way up.  
  
John glanced at his watch. **13.45**. He still had fifteen minutes until he was due. The closer John got the top floor, the more curious the looks he received from his passengers, possibly wondering what business he might have there. Five minutes later, the light above the doors dinged and opened to the thirty-fourth floor. John was the only person left to depart.  
  
The doors slip open to reveal a posh office suite, all chrome and a startling amount of white. Behind another desk—ivory, but smaller and more sensible— sat a dark haired woman in a smart black dress that stopped at the knees, and kitten heels that showed off her lavender toenail polish. Her hair was pinned up in an elegant chignon and not a strand out of place. Lastly, simple silver stud earrings polished off her understated ensemble.  
  
John had to hand it to Holmes. The man had fantastic tastes.  
  
The woman flashed him a beatific smile, genuine, unlike the lady before her. "Welcome to Holmes Pharmaceuticals. How can I assist you?"  
  
It wasn't the smile that did John in, but the subtle irish intonation to her words.  
  
John bit down on a few errant naughty thoughts and reminded himself that he was there for one reason. Mike counted on him to conduct his interview and the last thing John wanted to do was get thrown out for harassing Holmes' PA.  
  
"Yes, I'm John Watson, here on behalf of Michael Stamford. I have an appointment with Mr. Holmes."  
  
The woman inclined her head and gestured to an L-shaped ebony sectional across the room, pushed against the far wall. "Of course, please have a seat while I inform Mr. Holmes of your arrival. Would you like anything to drink?"  
  
John swallowed, more nervous now that it was almost time to meet the notorious Sherlock Holmes. "Um, water please, if you have it."  
  
The woman reached behind her desk and came out with a bottle of chilled water, and handed it to John before she spun on her heels and rounded a corner out of sight.  
  
John uncapped the bottle and took a sip, suddenly feeling thirsty and overheated. He pulled at his collar, wanting nothing more than to leave this swanky building, go home to his flat and cram for his finals. Which is what he really should have been doing.  
  
He should just turn and walk out, tell Mike he couldn't do it, say no to him for once. His friend would probably be angry for a little while, but John didn't belong here. He didn't know what he was doing. This was a mad idea-  
  
The sharp click of heels over marble tile pulled John from his fretful revelry. The woman came to stand a bit away from him, gesturing to the corner that she had turned into a few moments before. "Mr Holmes will see you now, Mr Watson."  
  
John stood and clutched the interview questions with both hands to stop them trembling. He followed the woman down a hall to a set of heavily polished wooden doors with large, chrome-plated handles.  
  
"Right through here. You don't have to knock, he's expecting you," she said, stepping off to the side and facing John. A tiny secretive smile curled the edge of her lips, as if she knew something he didn't. "Oh, and Mr Watson, don't look so frightened. Trust me, his bark is worse than his bite." With that cryptic statement, the woman turned and sauntered back to the front of the office.  
  
He was sure that the woman meant to be reassuring, but her attempt at mollification had the opposite effect. His insides quivered and his thoughts grew more irrational as John pondered his imminent encounter with the huge question mark that was Sherlock Holmes.  
  
John shouldered one large door open with what seemed all of his body weight, grunting in annoyance. Who the hell needed doors this heavy?  
  
The room was painted in darker colours and lit with natural light, fortunately for John's eyes. The whole back wall was a window that boasted an extravagant view of Canary Wharf and beyond. There was another large desk pushed sideways so that one's back wouldn't be facing the floor-to-ceiling glass. There were no mementos or family photos displayed on the desk, just piles of paper, a box of nicotine patches and a Rubik's Cube, already solved.  
  
"Well are you going to come in, or just stand there," a deep, orotund voice rang out from the other side of the room. John's head almost swiveled off his shoulders, it turned so fast. He had completely overlooked the charcoal leather couch occupied by a mile-long man.  
  
John had never seen a picture of Sherlock Holmes. The man guarded his privacy fiercely, and kept his lifestyle discreet unlike the CEO's of other large 'reputable' companies. He certainly hadn’t expected him.  
  
John scrambled to get in and close the door behind him, feeling foolish for the way his cheeks burned in embarrassment.  
  
"Sorry," John mumbled and turned to face the man once again, wishing he had been more prepared to come face-to-face with Holmes.  
  
The man was nothing like he pictured. Where John envisioned a middle-aged, heavy set man with a pipe, instead he was faced with a young, twenty-something, tall and oddly striking man. A mass of dark, S-shaped curls framed a thin, pale face with cheekbones sharp enough to cut.  
  
Okay, maybe that was a little cliché, but all the thoughts in his head had gone mum. John found no other way to describe how aesthetically pleasing he found the man. He didn't fancy himself a homosexual man, nor could he honestly identify as straight, but that didn't mean he actively sought out male companions. Despite himself, John couldn't deny that the warmth in his belly was anything but a spark of interest.  
  
Cupid's bow lips pressed together into a smile so forced, John couldn't help the tiny snort that escaped his lips, causing that straight, narrow nose to lift a tad higher. It was the deep-set eyes, though, that captured John's attention. They were a variegated blue, grey, green—John couldn't tell. His gaze was aflame with incomparable intelligence and glinted coolly in the light from the windows.  
  
"M-Mr Holmes, my name is John Watson." He stepped forward and thrust out a hand, which the older man grasped briefly in his own.  
  
"So it seems,"Holmes replied drily and motioned to two wide, leather chairs that sat on either side of a low, glass table, facing one another in front of the windows. "Months of haunting my blog and boring my secretaries to death with platitudes, and Stamford couldn't be bothered to show."  
  
John cleared his throat as he sat and forced his eyes away from the fit figure the man cut in his bespoke suit. It was tailored to accentuate long legs, broad shoulders, and a thin waist. John hoped to God he wasn't drooling.  
  
Holmes sat down across from him. He crossed his legs and leant back to gaze at John imperiously.  
  
"Actually, Mike was not well, so he asked me to conduct the interview for him. I hope that's alright with you."  
  
Sherlock peered at John, his elbows resting on the arms of his seat as his long fingers dropped to twine in his lap. "It's neither here nor there."  
  
John nodded and leant to the side to dig the recorder from his pocket. "Do you mind?" He asked Holmes to which he received only an arched eyebrow in response. "Okay, let's begin." John fumbled with the voice recorder, flustered under Holmes' intense scrutiny. He sat it on the table and clicked the red button to begin recording.  
  
God, Mike owed him so much for this.  
  
Looking down at the paper, John scanned the first question. "Now Mr Holmes, you have amassed quite a fortune at such a young age. To what or whom would you credit your success in your entrepreneurial endeavours?"  
  
Holmes brought his hands up under his chin and steepled them, acquiring an expression that landed between bored and pensive. "If you're asking if there was anyone that helped me through the process, then no, I credit no one." The man's eyes narrowed as he paused, chewing over his next words. "I'm not what you would call a man of the people; I am a man of science. I simply took something that interests me and hired like-minded people. The work did the rest."  
  
John nodded, going off script to acknowledge a statement he thought was peculiar. "And when you say, you're not a man of the people, what exactly do you mean?"  
  
Holmes shifted in his seat, a sardonic smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. "It is exactly as it sounds, Mr Watson. People are not my area; I don't have friends, mainly because I don't suffer fools gladly. Unfortunately, the earth is overpopulated by them."  
  
John grimaced, not at all surprised that the man didn't have any friends. He came off at prickly and arrogant, and in John's opinion, pretentious. "Noted."  
  
Holmes' smile softened from cynical to light amusement for a fraction of a second before it faded back to nonchalance once again.  
  
"Do you have any siblings, Mr Holmes?" John asked, watching as the man heaved an enormous put-upon sigh and rolled his eyes exaggeratedly.  
  
"Boring. That's a matter of public record. Next."  
  
"Bit tetchy, aren't we," John mumbled. He scanned the next question, his cheeks most likely burning an incandescent shade of pink in embarrassment.  
  
' _Damn you, Mike, couldn't think of anything better?_ '  
  
Holmes leant forward. His eyes flashed, frosted over and preternaturally pale from the light pouring through the windows. "Not _‘tetchy’_ , as you so eloquently put, Mr Watson, but I _am_ a very busy man. Surely you understand." His words were short and clipped, spoken through tight lips. The effect was immediate. John felt ashamed, as if he'd been thoroughly reprimanded like an errant child.  
  
John nodded, unable to meet that harsh, penetrating glare currently burning a hole through the crown of his head as he prepared for the next question. "Mr Holmes, you stated you're not a man of the people, yet you have over fifty thousand people in your employ. How does that affect your relationship with your employees?"  
  
Holmes' eyes squinted as he thought, one abstracted finger tapping restlessly away on the armrest. "It can be difficult at times, however it helps that the employees I work closely with are all picked by myself. They are highly intelligent and capable people. Not on _my_ level, but they are far from idiotic."  
  
' _Wow_ ', John thought, ' _he is so very humble._ '  
  
Holmes cut abruptly into his thoughts, voice crisp and precise as if he knew that John's attention had swayed briefly. "It's all about power as well. I have the livelihood of all these people in my grasp, and any moment, I can decide that I want to cut back on labour costs or that I simply don't need as many employees, and boom," he said, illustrating the sound with a vague hand gesture, "someone is out of a job."  
  
John had to admit Holmes was intense. The man spoke about thousands of people losing their careers so nonchalantly, as if none of it mattered to him one way or the other.  
  
He squirm in his seat as that sharp gaze bore into him. "Surely, that can be a bit in-intimidating," John stuttered.  
  
Holmes’ inclined his head. "Perhaps," he replied softly. "That's why I must exercise control. The expansion of my company leaves me obliged to the people that work for Holmes Pharmaceuticals."  
  
This guy was a nutter. He had the moral capacity of a bean; why would anyone find him inspiring. John silently questioned his friend's choice in interviewees, wondering if there was just no one else Mike could choose from the lot. There had to be another leading entrepreneur in the pharmaceutical field with a bit more humility.  
  
"So you enjoy the power and control?" Another off script question that John blurted out awkwardly.  
  
Holmes smiled, something other than humour darkening his eyes. "There is no other feeling like it." The man's voice lowered an octave deeper and John was certain there was a double entendre he missed.  
  
The atmosphere grew tense and John pulled at his collar, trapped under Holmes' penetrating gaze and overheated.  
  
A knock at the door severed the moment, and John nearly gasped in relief as the tension released from his shoulders. The lady from before strode into the room carrying a platinum tray with two steaming cups of tea and an array of digestives. "Ah, thank you, Janine."  
  
Sherlock nodded at the woman and flashing a brief grin John didn’t know he was capable of as she placed the tray on the glass table. With a pseudo-curtsy, Janine strutted out and closed the heavy doors behind her.  
  
"Tea?" Holmes offered and leant forward to take a cup for himself.  
  
John grabbed the only other one and sat back, inhaling the aroma. Mm, English Breakfast, his favorite.  
  
Once they were settled again, Holmes gestured for him to carry on.  
  
John swallowed his mouthful and leant forward to place his cup back on the tray before he continued. "As the CEO of a rather large company, it's quite clear that you put in a lot of extra hours here, but outside of work, what are your interests?"  
  
Holmes chuckled darkly, finally taking his eyes off of John and turning his head to survey the bustling activity on the streets below. "I have many interests."  
  
' _Can you be anymore vague_ ,' John thought to himself in irritation. The man was as aggravating as he was intriguing.  
  
"Anything in particular?"  
  
An insincere smile forged its way across Holmes' lips, and John suddenly felt like the butt of a joke he wasn't privy to. "I have many hobbies I indulge in; I provide consult to the Met when they're out of their depth, which is most days, and I play the violin when I have the time... However, there is one thing I enjoy in particular, but, well, it's a bit easier to show than to tell, Mr Watson."  
  
John was so sure there was an innuendo hidden in there somewhere, and the knowledge of it left John tongue-tied. Holmes didn't look away once as he spoke, keeping John ensnared in a calculating, predatory gaze that made his stomach do star jumps.  
  
John tore his eyes away and took a steadying breath. He cleared his throat, wishing he hadn't so foolishly agreed to do the interview. John swallowed and Holmes' eyes flicked down to his throat, tracking the movement. John read the next question and blanched.  
  
The corner of his eyelid twitched in annoyance, but he planted his metaphorical feet and forged ahead like the great friend that he was. Mike would pay dearly later on. "You have yet to make any public appearances with a date. Is there a secret lady in your life?" John bit out.  
  
Sherlock paused. His body tensed and whatever warmth he’d attained quickly drained away.  
  
"Women are not my area." The words were curt and to the point, and John heard the warning behind the words. They were on dangerous territory.  
  
John nodded and continued anyway. "Boyfriend? It's all fine, really."  
  
Sherlock narrowed his opaline eyes and replied tersely through gritted teeth. "I know it's fine."  
  
John lifted his hands up and faced his palms out in appeasement. "Sorry, just reading from the paper."  
  
Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat. "These aren’t your question?" he enquired. His eyes darted to the paper in John’s hand. Without waiting for an answer, he muttered to himself " Of course, they aren’t. I should have been aware by the way your eyelid twitched every time you looked at the question, and your obvious lack of preparation. _Stupid_ ," he hissed.  
  
' _Okay, what?_ '  
  
"I beg your pardon," John asked, offended. His back straightened in his chair, pulse racing as he bristled.  
  
The man's attention returned to John instantly. A look of pure annoyance distorted his otherwise pleasant features. "No, not you... Well, yes you, but I'm referring to myself at the moment."  
  
' _Yes_ ,' John thought, baffled.' _This man is barmy._ '  
  
"Did... Did you just call me stupid?"  
  
Holmes scoffed in exasperation, "Of course not. I meant you and almost everyone else."  
  
' _Arrogant arse._ '  
  
"Lovely," John dead panned.  
  
Holmes leant forward with intent, his gaze unapologetically intrusive. "Well, now _this_ is interesting."  
  
' _Shit_ ,' John felt his cheeks flame under the man's full attention. ' _Just what is he onto?_ '  
  
Holmes reached forward and clicked the stop button on the recording, wishing, John assumed, to continue speaking off the record. "Quite a large favour for a friend, one whom you aren't romantically attached to. This isn't the first time he's asked you to do something like this. In fact, Mr Stamford has asked you for multiple favours throughout your friendship." The man flashed a wolfish smile. "Blackmail?"  
  
John snorted and repressed the urge to scratch his head, confused as to how Holmes knew all of this. "Mike is my friend. He'd do the same for me."  
  
"How sweet," Holmes derided. "How about this: I'll allow you to ask me anything you'd like, as long as it's one of your own questions."  
  
John didn't know why, but he found the idea attractive, even though the interview hadn't really been for his benefit to begin with. John shrugged and bit his lip thoughtfully. Holmes followed the movement with his eyes, his expression inscrutable.  
  
"And why would you do that, Mr Holmes?" John was puzzled. All of this would be off the record, so there would be no point to the exercise. But for some reason, John wanted to know everything he could about the man.  
  
Holmes shrugged. "Because I have the time and Stamford's questions are tedious."  
  
John hesitated, unsure how to respond to that. Holmes' head tipped forward and his pale eyes sparkled with mischief. John was riveted as those sinful lips parted. "Come now, John. You're _burning_ with curiosity."  
  
A sharp knock on the door again, and Janine was poking her head through. "Pardon the interruption, Mr Holmes, but you have five minutes before your next appointment."  
  
Holmes placed his teacup on the table and leant back into the cushion of his chair, re-crossing his legs and smoothing a long-fingered hand over his suit jacket. "Please reschedule, Janine, Mr Watson and I are not yet finished here."  
  
Janine paused, her shining, espresso eyes widening, before her features smoothed easily back into the polished exterior. "Certainly, sir, I'll get right on that."  
  
John waited until the door was fully closed before he spoke. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Sorry, I don't want to keep you."  
  
Sherlock waved away his apology. "Don't be ridiculous. No one is really waiting for me." He stopped and John lifted an eyebrow to which Sherlock smirked. "Whenever meetings run over, it's Janine's means of extracting me, one might say."  
  
John couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out, because really, it was a brilliant idea, and not at all what he would expect from the millionaire CEO of Holmes Pharmaceuticals. Holmes chuckled lightly along with him, and the sound sent a thrum of desire straight to John's belly.  
  
Once their amusement abated, Holmes looked at him expectantly, and John steeled himself for what was to come.  
  
"How old are you?" John asked, for lack of anything else to ask at the moment.  
  
Holmes rolled his eyes. "Really Mr Watson, it's bad form to go into an interview without knowing anything about the individual."  
  
John could feel the tips of his ears blooming with heat and knew they were flushed a deep rose colour. "I was informed-"  
  
"This morning, obvious. In the middle of the night, going by the bags under your eyes. Lack of sleep and a callus on your middle finger from gripping your biro for a long period of time—I’d suggest investing in rubber grips for your writing utensils. All point to signs of exhaustion and your predilection for procrastination."  
  
John's jaw went slack in outrage. "I do _not_ procrastinate!"  
  
Holmes looked skeptical but unwilling to argue the point. "Very well. I'm twenty-six."  
  
' _Finally_ ,' John rejoiced. ' _A straight answer from this enigma of a man_!'  
  
John smiled down at his lap and patted himself on the back for his small victory. "Okay, next question. Why are you so big on this control thing?"  
  
Holmes sat up straighter, a slow smile lighting his eyes like twin bulbs. "You're getting warmer, John Watson, but you aren't ready."  
  
His brows furrowed in confusion at this, wondering why everything with Sherlock Holmes had to be so cryptic. ' _Ready for what?_ '  
  
A little beep filled the tense silence, emitting from the expensive Cartier watch fastened to the man's wrist. Holmes uncrossed his legs, looking for all the world as if he were disappointed. "My apologies, Mr Watson, but I'm afraid I must cut our meeting short. However, I do have a proposition for you."  
  
John had to hold back the urge to scratch his head. Instead he picked up the recorder from the table and shoved it into his pocket to keep his hands busy. "Proposition?" John enquired. "What sort?"  
  
Holmes stood and John followed, struggling to keep his wandering gaze on Holmes' face. It was a hard thing to accomplish when those legs went on for days.  
  
Holmes threw him a knowing look and clasped his hands behind his back. "In two weeks time, my personal assistant, Janine, will only be available to work for me two days out of the week. I will need someone reliable to stand in her absence." Holmes paused his words and walked a slow circle around John. He followed the older man with his eyes, determined to keep him in sight.  
  
John frowned in bemusement. "Are you offering me a job?" John couldn't keep up with the bewildering man. One moment he was insulting John’s intelligence, and the next, Holmes was offering him a job.  
  
Holmes stopped before him, an arm’s length away. "Consider it a paid internship. You can use it as credit towards your medical degree. I also know that your school funds are dwindling, so I will only offer this once."  
  
John stared blankly back at him, unable to find his voice or anything to say that would be remotely comprehensible.  
  
Holmes sensed this and strolled away, headed towards the heavy wooden doors. "I'll allow you two days to think on it, after which I will phone you and you will relay your answer to me."  
  
John suppressed the urge to salute. The bossy, controlling side of Holmes was beginning to emerge. "Yes, sir," John replied.  
  
It was meant to be sarcastic, but Holmes froze, turning towards John slowly, his peculiar eyes dark and ravenous. "Indeed," he said, low and guttural with an emotion John couldn't place. The sound sent sparks straight to John's groin.  
  
The man's gaze trailed a heated blaze from the top of John's head to the tips of his toes in a way that made him giddy and high on some unnameable emotion.  
  
Holmes took a deep breath and the shutter fell over his eyes once again. He turned and flung the doors open effortlessly.  
  
John shadowed him back out into the opulent foyer where Janine sat, face first in a stack of paperwork. Holmes motioned for her to stay seated and walked John over to the lifts. Janine observed, perplexed.  
  
"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes. Thank you for agreeing to this." John turned to face Holmes, who was regarding John intently as he spoke.  
  
"The pleasure is all mine, Mr Watson. I do hope you consider my offer." Holmes slid a hand between them, a bland smile situated into place, though his eyes now regarded John more closely.  
  
The lift dinged, and the doors opened. John stepped in, wondering why he felt so reluctant about leaving. "I will do, Mr Holmes."  
  
"Goodbye, John." Then the lift doors were closing between them.  
  
John released a long, slow breath and slumped back against the wall.  
  
' _Oh God_ ,' he thought. ' _What have I gotten myself into?_ '


	2. The Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John considers Holmes's proposition whilst fighting off unwanted desires.
> 
> Chapter underwent heavy editing 04/08/16. Now complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the wonderful feedback! I am so glad that this went over well with you all. I'm having so much fun writing this and I am happy to share it. For all of those staying tuned to 'Lycanthropy', expect an update by the end of the week. Anyways, on to the story!

Getting home to Lewisham from the wharf took the better part of an hour. By the time John left Holmes Pharmaceutical, the streets were congested with people leaving the city. It took four tries to flag down a cab, and once he did, John sidled into the backseat with a heavy sigh.  
  
Holmes had given him a lot to think about and not very much time to do it. John scrolled through his contacts until he found Mike's number, and opened up a thread.  
  
**To: Mike S.  
  
Omw back now. You owe me big time!**  
  
He pressed send and settled back against the seat for the duration of the ride back to Lewisham.  
  
By the time he reached their flat, Mike had yet to reply, which left John a little worried. Mike was usually good about texting him back or returning calls, even when he was busy.  
  
John paid the cabbie and hurried into their tiny, two bedroom flat, calling out to his flatmate as he entered. "Mike?"  
  
The sound of paper crinkling emitted from the sitting room, and John popped his head in to see Mike huddled up on the couch, lying in a sea of crumpled up tissues and drowning in a Union Jack patchwork quilt.  
  
John stepped into the room and looked his friend over in concern. "You alright, mate? You look like hell."  
  
Mike glared at John over the rim of his specs, eyes bleary with exhaustion. "I had to come back," he sniffed. "Kate was smothering me. I couldn't take one more bowl of vegetable soup."  
  
John chuckled and plopped down on the end of the couch unoccupied by Mike's smelly feet, already easing the recorder from his pocket.  
  
Mike's eyes cut down to it and back up to John, a relieved smile brightening his sallow features. "I reckon things went well with Holmes?" It was an innocent question, but John couldn't help being irritated with his friend. Mike hadn't warned him beforehand what exactly it was he was walking into.  
  
"Was he anything like the rumours say?" Mike asked, overtly curious. John contemplated holding out on him just to be vindictive, but the truth was, he was quite eager to tell his friend what occurred with Holmes. Mike always had some kind of wise advice to give and John was not going to pass that up.  
  
John tipped his head back against the couch cushion and turned to regard his friend with a stern glare. “The man was a right prat," John grumbled, sinking further into his seat. "You would've enjoyed every moment of it."  
  
Mike attempted a chuckle, but it veered off into a sharp cough which he muffled with a tissue paper. "Mike, maybe you should go to the clinic. You don't sound well."  
  
Mike waved him off with a half-arsed hand gesture and urged John to continue with his retelling of events.  
  
"He's not a very nice man, Mike. Incredibly arrogant and self-serving. Why would you possibly want to interview him?" John was genuinely curious.  
  
Mike coughed and cleared his throat. "Everyone knows Holmes is not a nice fellow, John, but he's a powerhouse in the scientific community. He may not be the ideal humanitarian, but the man is a genius."  
  
John nodded, though he still really didn’t understand. He struggled to be supportive of his friend's choices. Before he could stop himself, John blurted out what had been on the tip of his tongue since he walked through the door. "He offered me a job, Mike."  
  
Mike sat up abruptly and sent an avalanche of tissues cascading down his chest. "He what?!" His face was flushed and sweaty, but the previous lethargy was cast to the side and replaced with excitement.  
  
John couldn't stop the grin that spread across his lips. Maybe he didn't think Holmes was a very good man, but he was inexorably excited at the prospect of seeing him again. For some insane, incomprehensible reason. John didn't know why. Maybe it was his penchant for danger. Holmes certainly wasn't lacking in that area.  
  
John pulled himself away from his thoughts enough to form a coherent reply. "He wants me to fill in for his PA, to consider it a paid internship, he says."  
  
Mike wasn't making any attempt to mask his own glee at the idea. He practically vibrated with awakened energy at what John could only properly call a disaster in the making. "John, how did _you_ manage that?"  
  
Honestly, John had no idea and no answers to give. He hadn't stayed long enough to prod Holmes for more answers, and the man obviously had elsewhere to be.  
  
"I really couldn't tell you, mate. Holmes seemed... sort of mercurial. One moment he was insulting my intelligence, the next, he was propositioning me with a job, an offer I'm not even sure would be wise to accept."  
  
Mike's lips were parted in awe and John resisted the urge to reach out and close his mouth. "You can't say no, John, you have to take it," his friend implored. "Do you know how many people would kill for an offer like that?"  
  
John agreed silently. He didn't doubt that the queue into Holmes Pharmaceuticals was a long one, but could John really deal with a bloke like Holmes every day? He seemed demanding, and if John heard right earlier, controlling and intrusive. John would most likely be under constant pressure to meet his needs.  
  
John sat up from his slumped position and crossed his arms over his chest, brows furrowed as he struggled to put all these mixed feelings into a sentence that would convey his concerns properly. "Holmes is a very intense man, and there's something about him that's a bit odd, I just can't quite put my finger on it..."  
  
"Oh, no, no no, John, I'm not letting you pass this up because you're being paranoid." Mike was certainly pressing the issue harder than John had expected. He thought he would have an ally in his indecision, but Mike was firmly seated in opposition.  
  
John groaned in aggravation, a headache creeping up on him. "I'm not, Mike! Just you wait until you've heard the interview."  
  
Mike grabbed the recorder from the table and settled back down into his nest. "I think I'll do."  
  
John could hardly wait to see Mike's reaction.  
  


\---  
  


Fifteen minutes later, and Mike was even more sold on the idea, much to John's consternation. It seemed this time, he couldn't count on Mike to be in his corner.

  
"That... was brilliant! You are _ace_ , John Watson, I can't believe you got so much from Holmes!" Mike was over the moon with unabashed pleasure. It made John sick to his stomach.  
  
John smiled tightly at his over-enthused flatmate. "It was like pulling teeth."  
  
"Yes well, it paid off, and I still think you should take the job."  
  
John glowered at Mike. He wanted nothing more than to march back into Holmes Pharmaceuticals and tell Holmes to take his offer and shove it up his arrogant—hmm, but lovely—arse. ********He had to admit, however, that the offer did present some appeal. Now that he would have officially completed school, John would need something to occupy his time until he decided on a place to do his medical internship. Also, John would need a steady source of reliable income.  
  
Mike's parents had promised to purchase a flat near Bart’s where he would be interning when he finished Uni. He'd invited John to move along with him, but John was reluctant to agree. He wanted to earn his keep.  
  
Here was an offer presented to him on a silver platter straight from the mouth of a wealthy CEO, with promised pay. Anyone would think John a fool to turn Holmes down, Mike included.  
  
"This is wonderful, John," Mike's voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, gently nudging John back to the present. "Professor Loughton is most certainly going to want to publish this interview in the Daily Scientist. I'm thrilled."  
  
John smiled at his friend, happy that at least something good came from his hideously embarrassing meeting with Holmes. "Have fun transcribing that," John ribbed, standing up. "I have exams I need to be cramming for."  
  
When he turned, Mike was already burrowing under his quilt, a phlegmy cough smothered underneath the fabric. "I'll get right on that when I feel human again."  
  
John retired to his room, a small crowded area that felt even more so now that he'd been in the grandeur of Holmes's office building. He had to keep his room tidied and things put away to make more room for himself.  
  
John meant to begin studying for his finals, but instead he found himself opening his laptop and scouring the web for information on Sherlock Holmes.  
  
The man was admirably elusive. There weren't many pictures of him. Just a few taken from behind, or shielded by plainclothesmen escorting him to and from awaiting vehicles. Oddly enough, only a few of them managed to capture a glimpse of Holmes' face.  
  
' _What could he possibly have to hide_ ,' John wondered. ' _It's not as if he's the worst looking man in the world._ '  
  
Holmes kept his private life as far from the media as possible. There was nothing much to be uncovered about him, besides the public record of his parentage and one sibling. His mother and father, as it appeared, had been small time actors, yet managed to amass quite a fortune from various business ventures and investments mainly in theatre, the inheritance of which they'd passed down to their two sons. The brother, Mycroft Holmes, led just as secretive a lifestyle if not more than Sherlock Holmes. Not much was known about the elder brother other than that he occupied a minor position in the British Government.

John knew himself well enough to suss out that he was no longer just simply curious when it came to Holmes. More like intrigued, and he gravitated towards the mystery like a moth to a flame.  
  
Before he'd even left the building, John knew that he would say yes no matter how much he protested. He wanted to make Holmes wait, something he doubted the millionaire was subjected to very often.  
  
Satisfied with his decision and what information he had been able to dig up, John was finally able to put his thoughts of Holmes aside and focus his attention on his studies.

At least when next they met, John wouldn't be going in completely blind.

  
\---

  
Freedom was a beautiful thing, John mused, on his way home from his very last exam. For the rest of the day, John had no obligations to anyone and he could simply sit around the house in his pants if he wanted to, because Mike was out celebrating with Kate and John had absolutely no one to answer to.  
  


Well, except for that call he was due to receive from Holmes.

  
John strolled leisurely to his front steps, finding, to his surprise, that the door was already unlocked. He turned the knob and cautiously entered, wondering if Mike just forgot to lock up.  
  
"Surprise!" The lights flicked on, illuminating a group of people all piled into their tiny little flat, bearing balloons and a banner. ' _ **Congratulations John & Mike!**_', it proclaimed in large, looping cursive, with painted confetti smattered across the face.  
  
Right in the front, one of John's closest friends, Sarah Sawyer, detached herself from the group and threw her arms around his neck in a tight embrace. "Congrats on your graduation, John. I'm so proud of you."  
  
John caught Mike's eyes across the room where he was talking to Kate and a man that John didn't recognize. He looked ridiculous in his party hat, and John could assume his friend had endured the same induction.  
  
Mike had a party blower settled between his thin lips, which he breathed into when he met John's eyes, the little paper unfurling like a magic carpet. John chuckled and pulled back to see Sarah's face. "You just couldn't wait to get me in your arms, could you?" He teased, to which Sarah rolled her eyes and delivered a light slap to his bicep.  
  
"I heard about the offer you received from Sherlock Holmes," Sarah said, after John finished thanking everyone and they were settled on the floor against the wall. They only had one couch and it was occupied by Mike and Kate and whoever could stomach sitting next to them when they were halfway down each other's throats. "I think it's a great opportunity, but I also think you should be careful."  
  
John would have loved to hear that two days ago, before he'd made up his mind. He would receive the call anytime now and he'd already decided. John's brow furrowed, wondering what Sarah knew about Holmes to cause her to issue such a warning. He had learnt long ago to trust Sarah's instincts.  
  
Sensing John's wariness, Sarah angled her body to face his and folded her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. Her limpid, azure eyes surveyed him sternly before she opened her mouth to speak. "Mike also told me how you felt about Holmes, and I completely agree, if everything I read is to be believed. He seems like a very complicated man." She sighed, and John felt pinioned by her soft, knowing gaze. "I just don't want you to get too swept up in all that, is all."  
  
John, understanding her concern, flashed her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, Sarah. He might be a prat, but I've dealt with worse." And he had. When he was younger, school hadn’t always been the easiest to get through, and teenagers could be cruel. "I can hold my own against him."  
  
"I do hope so, John." Sarah stared at him seriously for a moment longer before a slow, mischievous smile slid across her lips. "I've also heard he's quite a looker."  
  
John groaned and thumped his head back against the wall. "You could say that."  
  
Sarah gave him a tiny kick with her leg, giggling at his unwillingness to elaborate. His mobile gave a soft ping in his back pocket, and John leant sideways to retrieve, wondering who it could be when all of his friends were in the one room.  
  
When he finally saw, John felt his stomach drop to his feet.  
  
**From:** **+44 20 7132 4199  
  
13.30. Cafe Rouge, if you're amenable.  
  
SH**  
  
John frowned in bemusement.  
  
_SH?_ He opened up a new thread and replied. He already had an inkling of who the sender could be, but he still wanted the clarification. It wouldn't do to be meeting some random stranger in a cafe.  
  
**To: +44 20 7132 4199**

 **Who is this?**  
  
John smiled to himself, hoping that the question irritated Holmes as he hoped it would. Sarah, whom John had forgotten was sitting beside him, delivered a tiny poke to his ribs. "Do you have someone new I don't know about? I haven't seen you blush like that in ages."  
  
John shook his head at her, and himself, feeling foolish. "No, I think it's Holmes texting me. He wants to meet at Cafe Rouge."  
  
Sarah raised a meticulously arched brow. "Does he?"  
  
His mobile pinged once again, and John couldn't be arsed to care how eager he appeared as he unlocked his screen to read the newest message.  
  


**From: +44 20 7132 4199  
  
Don't be tedious, John. I'll be expecting you shortly.  
  
SH**  
  
John could practically see Holmes rolling his eyes as he tapped out this message, and the thought made him snicker quietly. Yes, there was no doubt exactly who he was texting.  
  
He noted the time: **12.25**. At least he had time to make himself look presentable, not that he was trying to make an impression on Holmes or anything of that nature.  
  
_'Well this,'_ thought John sardonically, _'ought to be fun.'_  
  
\---  
  
Half an hour later and John had showered, brushed his teeth again, and combed his hair a total of five times, as well as paced a hole in the floorboards.  
  
Sarah watched him go through the process with a patient, if amused expression. She sat on his bed with an open book in her lap, relaxed now that their little party group dispersed.  
  
She giggled as John stood in front of the tiny mirror on his bedroom wall, attempting to brush his cowlick into submission. "John, you're to wear a hole in your head."  
  
John groaned in frustration and plopped down on the bed next to Sarah. "This is going to be a disaster."  
  
There was nothing that John could see about this situation going well. Holmes was a nutter and John was coming to the conclusion that he might be, too, seeing as he still couldn't find it in himself to back out of his decision.  
  
Sarah dog-eared the page in her book and set it aside before she manoeuvred herself to the edge of the bed where John sat with his chin resting in his palm, elbow propped on a thigh. She laid a small, gentle hand on his arm. "It's going to be fine, John. You know you don't actually have to meet with him. I'm sure he'd get the picture."  
  
"It's not that," John mumbled. "Just a bit nervy, I guess."  
  
John glanced at his watch and his anxiety kicked up a notch. **13.15**. "Shit, I have to get going." He jumped up, making sure he had his mobile and wallet. He leant down and brushed a quick peck over Sarah's awaiting cheek before he bolted out the door.  
  
"Text me later, John!" Sarah called out behind him. Of course she would just dig to see if there were any naughty bits.  
  
Cafe Rouge wasn't very far from Mike and his shared flat, just a ten minute walk, and not a penny wasted on a cab or the Tube, much to John's delight.  
  
It was a nice little cafe, one he had been to before with Mike and his parents. He tended to steer clear of the place, knowing they were a little on the pricier side.  
  
John waited for the cars to clear before he jogged to the other side of the street, immediately spotting Holmes through the windows. The man stuck out like a sore thumb, dressed this time in a deep purple button down tucked into perfectly pressed, black trousers. His fitted suit jacket and coat were folded painstakingly over the back of the booth. Holmes tapped away on his mobile screen, seemingly oblivious to everything around him.  
  
John was glad Holmes hadn't looked up just then. He would have caught John's enraptured, starry-eyed gaze and the blood draining from his face at the ridiculous rush of arousal. Why the hell did the arrogant sod have to be so gorgeous?  
  
Holmes didn't notice him until John came to stand uncomfortably next to the table, at which point, the man's long, thin fingers paused their movement. The owner of said appendages looked up slowly, features laden in pure annoyance.  
  
However, when Holmes noticed it was John, his expression smoothed into something more amiable. He stood gracefully, and presented his tall, lithe body for John to deliver a brief once-over. The top two buttons of Holmes' shirt were open, exposing a sliver of smooth pale skin and a few enticing beauty marks that John would die to get his tongue on.  
  
Holmes inspected John as well, quicksilver eyes scanning over his body to linger in some places longer than others. John knew it wasn't meant to be intimate, but he couldn't suppress the shiver that traveled down his spine at having Holmes' complete focus.  
  
Of course, Holmes caught his reaction and smiled, pleased. He motioned to the bench opposite himself. "Sit," he ordered, not unkindly.  
  
The aroma wafting from the kitchen was mouthwatering, and John realized he hadn't had much to eat that day, besides a slice of toast and a packet of crisp he grabbed during the graduation celebration. Right on queue, John's stomach groaned loudly, as if he hadn't enough to be embarrassed about already.  
  
_'Really stomach, you choose right now to start your complaining. Traitor.'_  
  
At the sound, Holmes' eyes narrowed in disapproval, managing to look austere and amused all at once. "You haven't eaten today." It was not a question, because apparently, Holmes didn't ask questions. He made demanding, matter-of-fact statements.  
  
John's chin lifted, not wanting to show Holmes that he was the least bit intimidated by the man. "A bit," he replied defiantly. He would rather not allow Holmes any leverage.  
  
Holmes scoffed and peered at John from beneath a curly fringe. One loose, brown lock escaped and fell into his pale, predatory gaze. "Crisps aren't a meal, John. You have crumbs on your collar, by the way."  
  
John blushed bright red, in chagrin and frustration. The fact that the man could be so blasé when John was struggling to keep a calm exterior was extremely maddening. He brushed a hand over the front of his shirt and glowered at the man sitting opposite him. Holmes had already dismissed him and began to tap away on his phone once again.  
  
"So," John started, unsure, "what did you want to meet me for?"  
  
Sherlock put his phone down beside his cutlery and crossed his hands on the table. "Obvious. I've come to hear your answer." As if John who reached out to him.  
  
John's eyes flickered sideways and then back again, confused. "You couldn't just call me?"  
  
Holmes rolled his eyes in exasperation.  
  
John couldn't help but think, ' _What a tosser._ '  
  
"I decided it would be best that this conversation took place in person." Oh, of course, mister control freak wanted to make sure John's answer would be in his favour. "A moment, please."  
  
Holmes raised his hand and almost immediately a waitress materialized beside the table, two chilled glasses of water at the ready, one of which she sat at Holmes' elbow, and the other before John. He wondered if she had been standing nearby awaiting a summons from the pompous git. Before she could stutter out a greeting, Holmes was already ordering.  
  
"One Poulet Breton and a cup of English Breakfast tea for my companion, if you will." John would have raised a protest if the man hadn't chosen exactly what he wanted. Dismissed without a word, the waitress uttered a “Very good, sir,” before she scurried off to the kitchen.  
  
John gawked. "How _do_ you do that?" Because Holmes was intimidating enough, and if he could read John's mind, that would make him doubly so.  
  
Holmes shrugged and pointed a perfunctory finger at the menu clutched tightly in John's hands. "I noticed while you were looking over the menu, you skimmed over the other items, but lingered on the Breton Poulet. You turned the page, but bookmarked it with your finger suggesting that something on that particular page caught your interest. It's all a matter of observation, John. A child could do it.”  
  
That spark of intrigue returned, double what it had been two days before, and John found himself once again captivated by the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. Not only was he a young, successful entrepreneur, but he was also just as Mike had said: A genius.  
  
"Amazing," John praised beneath his breath, unable to stop the awe and admiration from colouring words.  
  
Holmes' brow furrowed as if he were confused. "Really?" One eyebrow arched sceptically. "That's not what people usually say."  
  
Curious, John urged him on with a simple inquiry. "What do they usually say?"  
  
"Piss off."  
  
At that time, the waitress just happened to be dropping off the drinks as Holmes uttered this declaration without a hint of humour. Startled, she clumsily fumbled the steaming cup of tea onto the table and the steaming liquid sloshed onto John's shirt and trousers.  
  
"Shit!" John hissed and slid out of the booth, away from the puddle of tea creating a mini-waterfall as it trickled over the edge of the table. The tea was hot, but not scalding, thankfully. Holmes stood up as well, though a bit more gracefully, not even a speck of tea had landed on his pristine suit. The sight just made John grind his teeth even further.  
  
Around them, the other patrons murmured quietly, some outright staring while others pretended they hadn't noticed the utter disaster that was taking place. John wanted to curl up under the booth until the moment passed. Why? What could John have possibly done to warrant such embarrassment?  
  
The waitress apologized profusely and shoved a handful of serviettes insistently at John. Her face glowed an alarming shade of fuschia. Holmes was not amused.  
  
"Cancel the order, we'll be taking our business elsewhere. It seems they've not hired servers with the competency to carry a cup of tea to a stationary table." The man reached into his pocket and tossed enough notes on the tabletop to cover John's drink and the food.  
  
' _Well, that was rude_.'  
  
John looked over at the waitress with pity, humiliated and angry for her. "Holmes, really, it's not that big of a deal. I'm just going to run to the loo and clean up-"  
  
"I said," Holmes grit out as darkened, furious eyes pinned John to the spot, "we're going." He pivoted and stormed out of the restaurant, coat fanning out behind him.  
  
John sighed and patted the poor girl on the shoulder with a reassuring smile, then followed Sherlock out of the café.  
  
Outside, the rain fell down in thick sheets and Holmes gestured to a parked town car at the kerb; nothing fancy, just a discreet, black vehicle that John sighed in relief at. Holmes held the door open for him, features still pinched in annoyance, and John slid in, scooting as far away from the man as the small space allowed.  
  
Without prompt, the driver pulled away from the kerb and into traffic.

“What the hell was that back there?” John started in as soon as they settled into their seats. “That was a bit of an overreaction, don't you think?” John was outraged on the waitress’ behalf and wary of the man who sat so calmly opposite him, as if he hadn't just caused a scene in a busy restaurant.  
  
"While I find your company tolerant, John, I'll need your answer now," Holmes snapped coldly. John just couldn't keep up with the man's mood swings.  
  
John grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest. He positioned his body away from Holmes as he addressed him, vexed. "I was going to say yes, Mr Holmes, but now I have to know." John turned and regarded the other man with a careful eye. "What exactly am I agreeing to?"  
  
Holmes considered him in an appraising manner, more relaxed now that the two of them were alone. "I don't usually make offers like this, but _you_ almost make me feel compelled to do so."  
  
John turned fully in his seat to face Holmes, eyebrows raised in surprise. That was not exactly what he had been expecting. "Janine is a wonderful assistant, but she doesn't have a taste for adventure. But you," at this, Holmes' eyes roved over his body, and a familiar heat built in his groin, "you _crave_ it."  
  
John's breath hitched as arousal slammed through him like a lorry. He had to ball his fists in order to keep from reaching out. Holmes studied him, his piercing, gaze a shifting kaleidoscope of colours. There was something there that John knew for certain would be best left unexplored.  
  
Every part of him screamed danger, be wary; caution, caution, caution, and yet the adrenaline pumping through his veins held him firmly in his seat. He tried to convince himself that is the car hadn't been moving, John would have said goodbye and never looked back, but he had never been a liar.  
  
It felt like the air between Holmes and himself had risen several degrees, suffocating him. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he brazenly attempted to match that steady gaze.  
  
"I know what you need, John. If you allow me to take you under my wing, I'll show you exactly what you're agreeing to."  
  
Were they even talking about a job offer anymore?  
  
"Will you say yes?"  
  
John searched and searched for something, anything to use as a refusal, but all he could think of was danger and adventure... desire. Holmes was certainly no good for John, but funnily enough, that didn't lessen his appeal in the least. In fact, there was a magnetizing attraction to the infuriating man. He knew he should say no. Men like Holmes only led down very, very not good paths.  
  
But oh, did John want.  
  
Holmes arched a brow, a devilish gleam in his pale eyes, and John knew the only thing he could say was—  
  
“Fine.”


	3. The Attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally makes sense of Holmes's curious behaviour towards him, and yet, the revelation also comes with a plethora of unanswered questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of you that have been reading and commenting; it gives a writer inspiration to continue. Feedback is always appreciated and needed, so the author knows what can be expanded upon or changed, or else we continue to make the same mistakes. Remember, some us are here to improve our writing skills and some of us are here to share them (oftentimes both), so please feel free to point out anything to me that I might not have caught, or share your opinions. Thank you guys! You've been a lovely bunch!
> 
> Major edits completed 4/12/16.

Maybe it was the caffeine in the tea John consumed that morning or the fact that he was about to be stuck in a building for hours with a man that routinely sent him into cardiac arrest, but he felt giddy and ready to jump out of his skin.

It had been two weeks since he'd met with Holmes over a luncheon that had gone straight to hell in less than ten minutes. That was a new record for John.

Following John's acceptance of Holmes' offer, the man had instructed his driver to drop John at the deli across the street from his flat and unceremoniously shoved a tenner in his hand, before ordering him to eat. After which the git proceeded to close the door in John's face. Then, the car pulled smoothly away from the kerb and disappeared into traffic as if it had never been there.

John stood there, a string of swear words coagulating into one big ball of frustration in his mind. The man was nothing if not antagonizing and unbearably assertive. Despite wanting to defy Holmes, John's stomach complained loudly in it's empty state, so eventually, John gave in and hurried to the deli, trying to convince himself that it had nothing to do with his new, pain-in-the-arse boss.

Now, John had returned to Canary Wharf and stood before the same looming steel architecture as he had the first day. Business men and women walked brusquely around his stationary figure in their hurry to be wherever, but John paid them no mind. He was still trying to gather his wits about him.

Everything was much the same when he entered the building, down to the pretty, raven haired secretary with the scarlet lipstick. She beamed, recognizing John from before, and nodded towards the row of lifts that would take him to the thirty-fourth floor.

He responded in kind and hurried before the doors could slide shut, pressing the button that would take him to the top of the tower. This received the same reception as last time. A few curious eyes scanned over him before ultimately losing interest.

John's fingers clenched and unclenched nervously at his sides from where he leant against the back wall, watching the passengers come and go. The ride was mercifully short, leaving John with little time to doubt his decision to work for Holmes.

When John stepped out of the lift, Janine was at her desk, typing away at her computer with singular focus, until she noticed John. Her frown melted away into a sheepish grin as she stood to meet him. Her dark hair lay in loose curls around her shoulders, one side neatly pinned back with a pearly clip. This time, Janine wore a black pencil skirt and a white peplum blouse that flattered her curves. John tried not to eye her so appreciatively, and blushed as the woman raised an eyebrow at his failed attempt.

"Back again, then, Mr Watson?" She asked, pleased. John had the feeling he would come to like this woman very much. Janine came around the desk and held out a hand, which John shook briefly, then stepped back. Her smile widened a fraction, as she leaned in conspiratorily. "You've made quite an impression on the boss. That's a rarity, indeed, Mr Watson. You should be proud."

John shifted uncomfortably under the unexpected praise, but nodded graciously as the woman regarded with warm curiosity. "Thank you..." He ran a trembling hand over the back of his neck, attempting to stifle the riot of thoughts all fighting their way to the forefront of his mind. He had so many questions, but John wasn't sure if he ought to ask them just now.

What had Holmes told her about him, and where was said man ?

"Is he here?" John could hear the nerves in his voice and was certain she could too. He took a deep, steadying breath and stood a little bit straighter, readying himself for whatever mood Holmes might be in that morning.

Janine smiled in reassurance and waved John over to her desk. This close he could smell her fragrant perfume wash over him in waves of jasmine and an undertone of ginger, maybe. "Mr Holmes is out for a meeting, so I'm to explain what will be expected of you and show you round."

Janine took him on a tour of the floor and informed him of everything he needed to know about his position and what it entailed. It was basically everything John had expected, from filing paperwork and screening phone calls, to having a hot cup of tea waiting at Holmes' desk every morning. Then there were some things he found unusual, like Janine's instruction to make sure Holmes ate at least once a day and if it looked like the man hadn't slept in twenty-four hours, send him home. It sounded to John more like taking care of child than a job as a personal assistant. He wondered how much Janine got paid for all the extra work she seemed to be doing for Holmes.

An hour and two cups of tea later, there was still no sign of Holmes. John and Janine chatted cordially while she worked through a stack of papers and answered the occasional phone call.

He learnt that she had been in Holmes' employ for one, going on two, years. Now, thanks to her employer's connections and a favour owed him to him by the school president, she would be attending Le Cordon Bleu in London three days out of the week at a much cheaper tuition.

Janine told him about her desire to open up her own restaurant once she finished cookery school, and John wondered how such a sweet woman put up with someone like Holmes on a regular basis.

A few minutes later, the man in question strode off the lift. John and Janine stood to greet him as if the Queen herself had walked into the room. Holmes had his face buried in his phone screen, scowling at whatever it was he was reading.

"Janine," he snapped brusquely, breezing through the foyer without a glance towards either of them, "get Mycroft on the phone. I'll take the call in my office. Make sure you put him on hold for at least three minutes before you send it over. He hates that. John, follow me." John sent a raised eyebrow at Janine, who shrugged in helpless amusement, fingers already moving swiftly over the telephone keypad. Apparently, this happened all the time.

"Come _on_ , John," Holmes shouted from around the corner, impatiently.

Shoving down his initial reaction to flip the man's retreating back two very rude fingers, John shook his head and followed, unable to keep up with Holmes' long strides.

Holmes stopped at his office doors and turned to regard John closely, pale eyes dragging slowly from the neck down, expression unfathomable. John could practically hear the whir of Holmes' brain as it scanned and filed information away that John couldn't even begin to guess at.

Finally, that discomfiting gaze snapped up to his own. "That colour flatters you."  
  
John eyes widened, startled by the unexpected—and unquestionably rare—compliment he'd received from the dark haired man.  
  
Of course, the moment didn't last.  
  
"However, we'll have to do something about those clothes. We can't have you representing my company in second hand clothing. Do me a favour and cease shopping at Oxfam." Then, he left John sputtering indignantly behind him as he pulled open one of the doors and whirled in.

John glanced down self-consciously at the mulberry cotton jumper his sister gifted to him on his last birthday, and the only pair of dark trousers he owned, before storming in after Holmes, chin raised in defiance. "I'll have you know there is nothing wrong with my clothing, and it's _not_ Oxfam." Or at least he didn't think it was. One never knew with Harry.

"Hm," Holmes hummed distractedly, flipping through papers on his desk, "yes, whatever you say, John."

God, the man made him want to scream!

The phone rang loudly into the ensuing silence, pulling John out of his violent reverie. He had been thinking of ways he could hide Holmes's body, right after he strangled him.

Okay, that was going a little far, but the man was driving him to madness.

"Mycroft," his clipped between gritted teeth, spitting the name out like a curse. "Yes, I've read your ridiculous report. All of those sweets are scattering whatever brain you might have, and your waistline, apparently. I won't be meeting with Moriarty or that underhanded snake, Magnussen. Why James would place an infantile fool like that over his financial department is beyond me."

John paced to the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the Wharf, hands clasped behind his back as he peered down at the stream of people, tiny specks from his bird’s eye view. Holmes' eyes tracked his movement, reminding John of a wildlife documentary he'd watched a few nights ago on BBC, of a lion stalking a zebra from behind high grass, watching... hungry.

"I wouldn't partner with him if my company were on the line, which fortunately, it isn't, no thanks to you."

The back and forth continued for a moment longer, before Holmes hung up with a scathing, "Oh, piss off!"

John retained his silence and attempted to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, not wanting to be the outlet for Holmes' fury.

In the sky, cumulonimbus clouds gathered and threatened to drop their heavy loads on the city below, darkening with the threat of a morning thunderstorm. Despite his avoidance, John could feel that heavy gaze settle on him, and he struggled not to shift under the scrutiny.

"You have questions," Holmes spoke suddenly, his smoky baritone slicing through the tense silence.

John stared in bemusement as the man came to stand beside him, wondering what gave him away.

Holmes tilted his lips indulgently at the younger man, eyes skimming over John's face with impossible comprehension. "You're thinking quite loudly."

John turned to Holmes and smiled with no amount of humour. "So," he began, "do you treat all of your employees that way?" John nodded towards the phone on Sherlock's desk.

"Oh," Sherlock murmured, rolling his eyes in exasperation. " _That_."

John swiveled his head to the taller male in bewilderment, wondering if he was even bothering to take him seriously. "Yes, _that_!" he exclaimed. What a complete nutter!

" _That_ was my elder brother, Mycroft. Quite the interfering bastard," Holmes sniffed, brushing imaginary lint from his lapel with casual disinterest.

John hummed in acknowledgement, lips pursed. "Uh-huh, and how _are_ your employees treated, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "If you're concerned about your position here, Mr Watson, I assure you, you will be well taken care of."

It was a completely innocent statement, but that didn't stop John from feeling the slightest of shivers whisper down his spine. It seemed that everything Holmes said had a double meaning. John spent all of the two weeks up until that day attempting to work out if the man was trying to tell him something, but in the end, he couldn’t decipher what.

Holmes was watching him, analyzing him while he continued to talk. "All of my employees are well-compensated and treated fairly. If you do good work, I will reward you accordingly, monetarily or... otherwise." There! What was that hesitation? Just what was Holmes hinting at?

John swallowed and casts his eyes down, wishing that Holmes would speak plainly for once. However, he had the feeling that whatever it may be, he might not be ready for it.

Outside, the rain began to fall, first in soft patters against the window, before picking up pace until it came down in buckets. On the streets, he could see the little specks scurrying for shelter, while in other places, umbrellas sprouted up like bobbing, multi-colored lily pads.

"I feel like there's something you aren't saying," he said under his breath, needing to get it out, yet a part of him hoped that Holmes hadn’t heard him.

A smirk played at the corner of Holmes' lips, coy and suggestive. The distance between them pulsed with a palpable electricity that sparked wildly with attraction... and danger.

There. John could admit he was attracted to him, and if he wasn't mistaken, he recognized the desire in Holmes' eyes too. All the previous times they met... John had felt it then too, but didn't want to put meaning to it.

_Attraction_. Sherlock Holmes was attracted to him, but what did he want that he wasn't saying?

"There is," Holmes answered, "but come to me, John, when you're really ready to know." Those pale eyes were alight with humour and desire, and he found it hard to breathe as the man consumed him with provocative scrutiny. 

His eyes greedily devoured every emotion, every thoughtful change in John's expression, drinking him in like a thirsty man would an oasis. It made John's knees quiver like some kind of swooning maiden. In his trousers, his cock began to swell. .

' _Please don't get hard, please don't get hard_ ,' John pleaded silently with himself. He absolutely did not want to be standing in front of Sherlock Holmes—his new employer, mind—with a boner.

A knock at the door doused the flames of their heated interaction, and Janine raised a curious brow as she stepped into the room, taking note of the heavy atmosphere and John’s proximity to Sherlock. Wisely, she chose to stay mum. John hadn't noticed how close they became. Holmes was near enough to touch. As he twisted, John could see his jaw tighten in obvious frustration, before falling back into cool insouciance.

"Ah, Janine, there you are," Holmes acknowledged, voice belying no effects of his heated conversation with John. "I have work I need to attend to, so I'll be in and out of the office throughout the day. John will be shadowing you. I need him useful tomorrow, not stumbling round confused." 

"Yes, Mr Holmes, sir," Janine saluted, and Holmes shot her a light warning glare.

He spun away from John and headed to his desk, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair and swinging it over his shoulders. "John, I need you to have her instructions memorized. You'll be on your own tomorrow."

Holmes checked his phone one last time before he nodded at John and Janine, then swung out the door.

They waited for a moment until Holmes was well out of earshot before Janine turned on him with a sly, inquisitive smile. "What exactly did I just interrupt? Thought maybe I walked in on the two of you shagging." That was another thing John appreciated about Janine; she said what she wanted to say, when she wanted to say it, and the woman had a wicked sense of humour.

John chuckled uncomfortably, staring down at his feet in chagrin. "No, no, nothing like that," he replied sheepishly, incapable of putting a label on whatever had happened between he and Holmes.

Janine's lightly glossed lips perked up coquettishly as she eyed John a moment longer before she turned on her heels and marched for the door, shaking her head as she went.

Befuddled, John stood there, trying to figure out what just happened. "What?" He called after Janine, jogging to catch up with her.

The woman only lifted her hands in acquiescence, as she rounded the corner.

\---

By the time afternoon rolled around, John knew a hundred different tricks on excel, Sherlock's preferred brand of tea (Twinings Earl Grey), every one of Holmes Pharmaceuticals' business competitors—not that Holmes actually paid them much mind according to Janine—and specific instructions on how Sherlock preferred to have his great bloody coat cleaned. Among that, he also learnt what calls to take and who to get a message from. Unsurprisingly, the list of dismissals was lengthy, with the name Mycroft Holmes at the very top in bold, black letters.

John thought it a bit absurd that Holmes was so averse to his brother, who from the sound of their previous conversation, was also involved in the company dealings, but John also didn't know the history there, so he reserved judgment.

At noon, Janine allotted John an hour lunch, which he was supremely relieved to take. All the new information he'd learnt was giving him a migraine.

John had been texting Sarah in-between lessons throughout the day, updating her on all the new developments. It felt nice to talk to someone normal after all the uneasiness of the day. Janine was sweet and personable, but Sarah was a familiar face and a warm voice.

**From: Sarah**

**Lunch?**

John smiled, wishing he had told her what time he would be going. The wharf wasn't exactly a skip away from Lewisham, especially during noontime.

**To: Sarah**

**How'd you know? :) where r u?**

John pocketed his phone and waved a goodbye to Janine as the lift doors closed. His phone buzzed again ten floors down.

**From: Sarah**

**Outside your building**

John’s lips quirked happily at the news. Leave it up to Sarah to know when he needed some moral support.

Outside, he spotted Sarah leant against a pot of plants almost as tall as she, looking just as out of place as John felt. She wore a flowing pink, knee length dress that cinched at the waist, with a white Peter Pan collar. Her dark blonde tresses fell in soft, loose waves around her face. The rain had stopped earlier in the day, leaving behind a light breeze that gently ruffled Sarah's dress as she straightened up.

She was beautiful, and if Sarah wasn't his best friend, John would have tried to chat her up. Back in their first year of Uni, he and Sarah had tried with one another. They had both been fresh-faced and eager to connect with someone during those first few lonely months away from home for the very first time. It only lasted a month before they decided they were better off as friends, and John never regretted it.

Sarah beamed when she spotted John walking across the courtyard to meet her. Already he could feel the tension drain from his shoulders. She strode forward to meet John the rest of the way and held out her arms, beckoning John into them. He smiled and walked into the embrace, picking his friend up and spinning her in a circle.

They had talked on the phone during the week, but John hadn't seen Sarah since his graduation party. It was a relief to be surrounded in her warmth after spending a day in the cold, colourless building behind him.

Their enthusiastic reunion garnered quite a few inquisitive glances, causing John to blush and place the petite woman back onto the ground with a sheepish grin. "How did you know when to come?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest as he watched Sarah roll her eyes.

"You're a professional now, John! Everyone knows lunch is at twelve. Come on, I know a brilliant little café up the road that serves the best pasties." Sarah looped her arms through John's as they started down the pavement, pushing through the throng of businessmen.

As they ate, John kept one eye on the time, not wanting to be late on his first day. Sarah kept up a steady stream of conversation, and though he nodded along gamely, John's mind was elsewhere. It wasn't until Sarah lightly kicked him under the table, that John realized he had stopped paying attention entirely.

"You've not heard a word I've been saying, have you, Watson?" Sarah pointed out archly. John shook his head, smiling apologetically. "Alright then, spit it out."

He sighed and slumped on the booth bench, not even sure where to start with this whole mess, but he was dying to talk to Sarah about it, in hopes that she may have some sort of light to shine on his very unusual situation with Holmes.

John scratched the back of his head, wondering how to tell his friend about his flirtatious conversation with his boss. "I don't know, Sarah. I-I think we -... I think Holmes and I have been... flirting?"

Sarah shot John a bewildered look and scrambled to sit up straighter in her seat. "Holmes, your new employer? Have I got that right?"

John shrugged noncommittally, unsure now that the words were out if telling Sarah had been the best thing to do. She didn't look too happy about it.

Sarah shook her head solemnly. "I don't know if getting involved with him is a good idea. You said yourself, something was off about him." She folded her arms over her chest and fixed John with a stern look from under her lashes.

John threw his hands up in surrender, '"I'm not- I'm not saying I'm going to jump into bed with him," he said under his breath, assuring that no one else overheard their conversation. "I really don't know what's happening, is all." John rubbed a hand over his face, massaging the line between his eyes tiredly, because really, he was tired; tired of all the cryptic comments and secret smiles, and Holmes' less than subtle innuendos and double entendres.

Sarah had gone quiet and John looked up curiously to see her staring in horror at something over his shoulder.

There, walking through the door was the man himself, Holmes, and a woman he didn't recognize from the office. She was petite and not very tall at all, but the five inch heels on her perfectly manicured feet brought her up to Holmes' jaw. Dark, ruby red lips curled in a flirtatious smile that lit up a feral green gaze. The woman’s glistening hair was pulled up into a polished knot, and she wore a simple, if elegant, inky wrap dress. She oozed grace and power... seduction, but most of all, she looked perfect standing beside Holmes.

The was mildly surprised at the wild surge of jealousy at the sight of them together caught John off guard. His stomach plummeted unpleasantly and his breath to caught in his throat.

When he glanced up, Holmes had spotted him as well and whatever he had been saying broke off mid-sentence. His eyes flickered from John to a point behind his shoulder, where they narrowed. The woman he was with stopped and turned as well, lifting a finely pointed brow when she saw John.

John wanted to turn and see if Sarah was melting under that decidedly aggressive glare that Holmes had her pinned under, but he was enraptured.

_Oh God_ ,' John thought in horror, ' _and now he's heading this way!_ '

Holmes had started their way, graceful and detached, like a model on a catwalk in his finely tailored suit and shiny black shoes. God, John didn’t know whether to jump the man or run in the opposite direction.

He turned to Sarah, eyes wide and beseeching, but she shrugged, just as nonplussed as he.

'What the fuck?' John mouthed in panic. This, he had not been prepared for.

Holmes appeared beside the table, staring imperiously down his nose like a king would his commoners. "John," he nodded in greeting at the younger man, hands clasped behind his back in a way that pushed his chest forward. The buttons of his shirt strained enticingly.

John threw up his hand in an awkward half wave, half salute, narrowly avoiding knocking over the now tepid cup of tea on the table.

"Careful now, John, we wouldn't want a repeat of last time now would we?" Holmes smirked in a way that conveyed no warmth whatsoever, before turning his piercing pale gaze on the woman across from John. The cold crept back into his eyes, and Sarah froze under the intense observation.

Thankfully, the woman from earlier took that moment to cut in, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over the table. "Well, Sherlock, it seems you're interrupting their date," her voice was low and silken, and her eyes, intelligent and calculating as she gave John what had to be the most overtly sexual once over he'd ever received in his life. "Hm, well aren't you adorable. Pity I didn’t get to you first."

Holmes' head whipped around quickly at that, lips curled up in an outraged snarl. "Shut up, Irene," he hissed. The woman only shrugged and threw him a dainty smirk.

"I'm going to go find us a table. Feel free to come join me when you're done playing with the children," Irene declared, then strut off through the tables without waiting for an answer. Holmes paid her no mind.

"Uh", John began, shifting in his seat to face Holmes, "we're not - it's not a date," he fumbled. He didn't know why he felt the need to explain himself to the man. Quite frankly it was no concern of his, but John didn't want whatever was happening with Holmes to end so abruptly. He wanted to know what it that Holmes thought he wasn't ready for. John had a feeling if he left things as they were, he would never find out the truth.

"Sarah Sawyer," Sarah suddenly spoke up, breaking the moment between Holmes and John, and thrusts her hand out to the older man.

A beat passed, wherein Holmes stared at the outstretched hand before slowly taking it, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

Seriously, the man was killing him.

"Sherlock Holmes," Holmes returned blandly, before taking his hand back and turning to John, a blatant dismissal in his body language. In his peripheral, John could see Sarah's shoulders slump in obvious relief. "I assume your first day is coming along well, John?"

John nodded, shooting his employer a placid smile, though it did not match the storm brewing inside. "Very well, sir. Janine is a brilliant teacher."

At the appellation, John noticed a miniscule darkening of Holmes' eyes, so quick he would have missed it if he hadn't been watching. It made his belly throb. Holmes noted John’s realization, and suddenly, the connection from earlier had returned, sparking and crackling between them.

Holmes hummed. "Very good," he said, deep voice smoothing over the words with more meaning than John could comprehend. "Well then, I'll leave you to it. Best head back soon, John. Janine will be expecting you." Holmes stepped back from the table and nodded a goodbye at the two of the before meandering away to find his companion.

John slumped back against the seat with a breathed, "Fucking _hell_..." and Sarah appeared as if she were holding back the urge to do say the same.

" _That_ ," John croaked out unsteadily, "is what I meant."


	4. The Hunger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit content, and this will be my only warning going forward. Heed the tags, please. Enjoy!
> 
> *Feedback is welcome and always appreciated*
> 
> Major edits made 4/13/16. Editing complete.

Finally, the day was almost over and John could breathe easy again. Since the incident at the café during his lunch with Sarah, John spent what was left of the day feeling as if he were submerged underwater, waiting with bated breath for Holmes' return.

The atmosphere at the table had been uncomfortable after Holmes sauntered off to join his companion. John hadn't sought him out again, but for the duration of John's lunch, he could feel eyes boring into the back of his skull. It was awkward and disconcerting, but he couldn't deny the thrill he felt at the knowledge that Holmes was possibly jealous of Sarah. Although John was loath to drag his best friend into his complicated dance with his new employer, he enjoyed seeing Holmes' carefully crafted composure fall away.

However, John was curious. The woman who accompanied Holmes to the café was undeniably beautiful. They were obviously comfortable with one another, if the familiarity in which they spoke was anything to go by. She had called John and Sarah 'children', as if she was that much older than them. John wouldn't peg her for a day over thirty. Irene, Holmes had called her, and he wondered what was her connection to the millionaire.

It wasn't until late afternoon that Holmes returned. He glided through the foyer without even a glance in John's direction, deeply engrossed in whatever he was tinkering with on his phone. The door to Holmes’ office slammed loudly behind him, causing the woman next to John to flinch slightly.

Well, guess that was that then. Holmes was royally cross with John, and Janine would be leaving in half an hour at 16.00. Which meant he would be alone with Holmes for a full hour before he could go home. Before lunch, the prospect would have excited John, and now, he didn't know what to expect from the capricious man.

Janine sighed heavily and stood with her monstrous stack of files, preparing to face the fire-breathing dragon in the next room. "Mr Holmes is in a strop. One of his lovely moods you'll come to be well acquainted with." Janine hefted the pile of papers higher up into her arms, and seeing her struggle, John jumped up to relieve her of her load.

Janine flashed him a grateful smile and bumped a slender shoulder softly into John’s. "Sure you want to go in there with me? Could get ugly."

John shrugged and nodded to her to lead the way, wondering if Holmes could possibly be that bad.

Janine led the way to the office door and knocked softly. Inside, he could hear papers being shoved around and Holmes' deep voice arguing loudly with someone on the phone. "It’s no fault of mine that you're too busy sticking your face between your secretary's thighs you can hardly do your job. I sent you a list yesterday of everything that was to be shipped out, and now I have clients calling me due to your inadequacy to stay on task..."

His voice fell lower as he walked further into the room, but John could still hear him ripping mercilessly into the person on the other end. Janine threw an amused look over her shoulder, though it did nothing to reassure John. He had never seen Holmes angry, but from what John read on the internet about his new employer, he was a shrewd businessman and when things slipped out of his firm hold, he could be vicious. John thought back to the interview he conducted with Holmes, and the comments about his tendency to be controlling. John didn't take Holmes for a man who tolerated mistakes with something so important as is company.

From the sound of it, someone was slacking on the job and now Holmes was coming under fire because of it.

A loud bang emitted from the room, startling him from his contemplation, and John shifted uncomfortably, wondering if it was probably wise to come back another time. "You're a terrible liar, Wilkes. I'll give you until the end of the week to vacate the premises." It was silent for a moment before Holmes' voice filled the room once more, soft and cold. "Oh Sebastian, you have no idea the lengths I would go to get what I want. And what I want right now is you out of that building. You have until the end of the week."

John exhaled slowly at this, unsettled. He knew the man could be cold and callous, but hearing him as he was in that instance, John knew Holmes was the fire people were often warned to steer clear of. He was the man Sarah had urged him to be careful of, the one journalists were salivating to get an interview with.

"Come," the man inside snapped. Confusion clouded John's thoughts for a moment, before he realized Holmes was referring to the pair of them standing outside his door.

Janine pushed the door open and walked inside, John shuffling behind her with his own stack of papers. Holmes was pacing restlessly in front of the windows like an agitated lion, lips pressed together into a grim line. He didn't turn as Janine placed the pile onto his desk and motioned for John to follow suit. Finally, he stilled and steepled both hands together over his lips.

"Mr Holmes, these are the reports you requested this morning. I'll be taking my leave soon, unless there's anything else you'll be needing."

Holmes whipped around, regarding Janine for a moment before he answered. "No, that will be all, Janine."

Janine nodded at her employer, smiling fondly at the taller man, who returned it with an equally warm one of his own, to John's surprise... and perplexity. Just what kind of relationship did Holmes and Janine have?

_'Down, Watson! you've barely been here for a day. Don't start making assumptions just yet._ '

The mention of his name snapped John out of his head, as Janine informed Holmes—who still had yet to acknowledge his presence—that John would be there for the last hour if he needed anything.

Holmes' sharp eyes cut to John, expression unintelligible, before sliding back to Janine. "If that is all, Janine, you are free to go."

John followed Janine back to the foyer, growing nauseous as his stomach twisted itself into a pretzel. Holmes was an odd, unpredictable sort and John never failed to be disarmed in his presence. He knew bugger all about his new employer, besides the fact that he knew how to get John in a snit and turn him on all in one go. Holmes was a complete mystery that John couldn't help but gravitate to, and in the current situation, that was not a good thing at all.

When the time came for Janine to leave, John’s pounding heartbeat filled the cold silence of the foyer. He was a bit sad to see her leave, knowing that they probably wouldn't see much of one another in the following months, seeing as she would be working when John would be off and vice versa.

John escorted her to the elevator and sent her on the way with a brief embrace, wishing her farewell and the best with her cookery lessons.

All was quiet and uneventful during John's first half hour, post-Janine. Before she left, Janine had cut half the lights in the foyer, informing John that he could still take calls, but no one had any reason to come up to the floor. So John sat quietly in the dim light, tapping his fingers on gleaming marble absent-mindedly. He thought about ringing Sarah, but decided against it. They'd parted amicably as they always did, but John could tell that his friend had grown uncomfortable under Holmes's indiscreet surveillance.

There was no light background music to fill in the silence, Just the faint blare of horns from the streets below and John's even breaths. With Janine gone, he was at a complete loss at what to do. When his mentor was there, it seemed she always had her hands full or a project to work on, but now the desktop was cleared of everything but a state-of-the-art computer and a phone that stayed dreadfully silent.

John felt the hair on his arm rise when he heard Holmes's office door open in the hall. Every cell in his body responded to the sound of his shoes against the marble tile, each step precise and heavy with purpose. It was frightening and exciting, and John could feel his spine straighten in anticipation.

Holmes smoothly rounded the corner, where John couldn't even turn on his heels without the soles of his cheap shoes squeaking loudly against the floor. He envied the posh git his gracefulness.

"John," he nodded, eyes peering around the room with comfortable familiarity, before he turned a piercing glare onto the younger man behind the desk. John inclined his tight jaw and held his breath as he waited for the ball to drop. "Interesting company you keep."

John matched his stare, unimpressed by Holmes' unsubtle prod into his personal life. "Could say the same about you, hm?" If it came out cynical, Holmes didn't bat an eyelid, but his eyes grew shadowed with a nameless emotion.

"Do you often form companionships with women you've had previous emotional entanglements with?" Holmes eyed him closely, narrowed gaze flitting over his face for tiny tells that John was sure he could read just as easily as if he were speaking his thoughts aloud.

John pursed his lips and fought down the smile that threatened to crack his deceptively impassive front. He raised his chin another inch in defiance and returned Holmes’ critical glare.  
  
"Would you like to know my pants size, as well," John quipped, the knowledge that he was poking at a sleeping beast not only exciting him, but encouraging his uncharacteristically bad behaviour.

A slight upturn of the lips was visible as the man leant his weight on the table, arms folded casually across his chest like some gorgeous lothario. His arctic, cocksure gaze locked on John with the unflinching certainty that he could do whatever he wanted to him in that dimly lit foyer, and John wouldn't do a thing to stop him.

John knew it, and so did Holmes. He could feel the hunger corroding what sensibility he had left. Holmes was all-consuming. Even just standing there, he sucked up all the air in the room and left John breathless and desperate to close the space between them.

At that moment, he didn't care that Holmes was devouring every expression, every thought that flew across his mind. John would bitch out about it later with Sarah over some Hobnobs and a cuppa, but for now, he relished the fervour in which Holmes regarded him.

"I don't think you quite appreciate the restraint I exercise in not setting you straight, Mr Watson." Sherlock's baritone rumbled over him like satin sheets and midnight storms, sultry and deep. "You are quite careless with your words."

' _Setting me straight?_ ,' John thought warily. That was a very unusual choice of words, and Holmes never said anything unintentionally.

John’s brows furrowed as he stared up at the Holmes, with his stupid (striking), smug smirk and that (wonderfully tight) shirt that strained across his broad chest. He could have been a living sculpture created by Phidias himself.  
  
"Set me straight, hm? And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"  
  
John tried, he really did. He'd been going for indignant, but his words slipped out tainted with curiosity and trepidation. Was it really wise to be encouraging him?

Not one to mince words however, Holmes rounded the desk slowly, confident that John wouldn't react unkindly to an invasion of personal space, which Holmes seemed to have an inclination towards. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. What was playful and light became potent and inviting. John’s lungs tightened as the thickening ambience left him fumbling clumsily over his words. "Are you-"

Before another word could leave his lips, Holmes grasped the arms of his chair and turned it, then leant forward, crowding John in his seat. Large hands and long, spidery fingers splayed out on the armrests. John licked his lips nervously at the sight of them. Holmes' sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, his forearms a steel cage of corded muscles that John ached to grab hold of.

"What I mean," he spoke softly, crisply pronunciating each word. Holmes leant forward until he was nearly touching noses with John, "is when the time comes—and it will eventually, make no mistake of that, John Watson—you won't be able to sit for _weeks_."

John swallowed, unable to look away from the eyes of the madman who turned him on faster than a pubescent teenage boy discovering pornography for the first time.

John shifted in his chair in a pathetic attempt to alleviate the sudden—but not entirely unexpected—pressure in his pants. " _Jesus_ ," he breathed.  
  
Holmes was close enough to hear. His eyes rose from John’s parted lips, to his eyes, and back again, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a lascivious smile.

"Wrong," he whispered, and closed the distance. Unprepared, John gasped into his mouth.

The kiss was slow and tentative, an unhurried invasive exploration of one another's lips. Holmes tasted of cigarettes and bourbon, a titillating mixture that caused John to melt in pleasure.

He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming this entire scene up. John wasn't even sure that he was alive anymore. Maybe he slipped on the marble and cracked open his skull.

A sharp bite to his bottom lip pulled John from his increasingly frantic musings, and he forced down an unmanly whimper at the pressure.

_'Fuck, this is really happening!_ '

John felt his body begin to respond. It was comparable to an out of body experience. He knew it was happening, but it was like watching himself get snogged from an omniscient point-of-view.  
  
Aaaaand there was Holmes' tongue, sliding past the boundary of John's lips.

A long-fingered hand lodged itself into John's shorn hair, pulling sharply. John gasped, and Holmes finally relented his pillaging of the younger man's mouth, their harsh pants filling the silence. The air around them grew hot and moist as their breaths mingled.

"Focus, John," Holmes hissed in annoyance at John's wandering attention. John released a tremulous breath and locked gazes with the man leaning over him. Holmes' eyes were dilated, darkened with lust and exhilaration. He was beautiful and mercifully near enough to touch, so John reached out and clutched a handful of dark curls. Pulled him forward.

Holmes grunted at the abrupt collision, but wasted no time pressing into the kiss, fervently. John felt his cock throb in his trousers at the sensations coursing through his body, the adrenaline fueling the vehemence they devoured one another with. His legs fell open to alleviate the stress in his nether regions, and Holmes eased forward to kneel between them.

John had never been with a man past a little snogging here and there, but Sherlock Holmes made John want to give him everything. He wanted those Cupid's bow lips on his body, his cock. He wanted to run his tongue along fine, wintry skin and see what it would be like to lay under that perfect body and allow Holmes to take whatever he wanted.

Holmes' hand was ran up his side, skimming over his ribs as he dominated John's mouth. The light touch caused John to flinch, trying not to giggle as Holmes inadvertently discovered ticklish places John hadn't even been aware of. A finger pad traced slow, arousing circles over his nipple. John pulled away, a ragged moan tearing from his throat as he fought to control the orgasm building from their passionate embrace, alone.

John tracked a bead of sweat trailing down Holmes' neck and over his clavicle, tugging at deep primal urge in John to reach forward and lick it away. He felt compelled to go further, to seal his body against the older man's and make him come apart just as easily as Holmes was undoing him.

Holmes sat back on his heels and observed John with a predatory glint that. Pleasure dripped like honey, thick and intoxicating, settling warm in his groin. His blood sang.  
  
God, the man was magnetic.  
  
The hand that had been weaved into his hair was now gripping his thigh in a tight grasp. Holmes was restraining himself, John realized. 

Slowly, reality began to creep back into the edges of John's hazy vision, soaking away the pleasure until it dawned on him what exactly he was doing and who he was doing it with.

John stood abruptly, and Holmes, seeing the change in the younger man's demeanor, rose warily to his feet. "No, we can't—we shouldn't have done that." John took a step back in the small space he was allowed between Holmes and the chair, wanting to put some distance in the gap between them, or he feared he would not be able to stop the next time.  
  
"God, I'm so sorry," John said, running a trembling hand through his undoubtedly wrecked hair, and removed them just as quickly. He shuddered at the memory of long fingers threading through the strands, pulling. It had felt so painfully satisfying.

"John," his name rolled off that skilled tongue like a lover's caress, soft and breathy, sending a frisson of pleasure curling down John's spine. Holmes set off every excitatory neurotransmitter in his body, and John found himself struggling to take hold of himself once again. Holmes took a step forward, and John took one back defensively.

"You couldn't have just told me this is what you wanted?" John grit out between clenched teeth, folding his arms around his body. He was vulnerable under those sharp eyes, and uncomfortable with the lack of light in the room. It was too intimate an atmosphere. " You did all this, hiring me, because you wanted to what—shag me?"

Sherlock frowned. His lips thinned into a hard line as the shutters dropped down over his eyes once again. The glimmer in his pale eyes dulled until he stared impassively at the younger male. "Of course not, don't be stupid, John. I hired you because I know you will be a great asset to my company, as my assistant."

John rocked back on his heels, all the previous desire flying out the window, along with the thin reign he held on his temper. "You complete and utter pillock," John chuckled humourlessly, unamused by the revelation. He ran a hand over his face in frustration, pausing when his palm slid over his lips. "Unbelievable."

Holmes watched John in wary bemusement, a little line appearing on the bridge of his nose as he furrowed his brows. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

John shook his head, disappointed in himself for losing his control and kissing the smug bastard. How could he have allowed himself to give in so easily. "First, you infringe upon my lunch with Sarah and work yourself into a snit because you have this barmy idea that I belong to you now that you've employed me! And second, you decided it was a brilliant idea to jump me, here in your office. _You_ are mad."

Holmes scoffed, waving a dismissive hand at John's accusations. He wasn't smiling, but the gleam was back in his eyes, and John realized that the idiot was enjoying this. "Oh please, don't play coy now, John. Your erection certainly tells a different story."

John sputtered, indignant, and stubbornly refused to look down to where his pants were most assuredly tented. He wasn't going to allow Holmes the satisfaction of knowing that the moment between them affected John more than he was capable of admitting. "You can hardly blame me when you were shoving your tongue halfway down my throat!"

Holmes flashed a crooked grin in blatant self-satisfaction, preening like some damned peacock, and perched an eyebrow challengingly at the younger man. John’s defensiveness leaked away under Holmes’ charms, shoulders dropping in defeat as he shook his head. "You're insufferable. I really don't think working for you would be a good idea."

"Oh, don't be so dull, John. You enjoyed it, you find me attractive, no—don't bother with a useless refutation," Holmes cut in when John opened his mouth to argue. "I hired you because I need an assistant I can tolerate longer than a minute, and you seem to have come the closest to that besides Janine. Never mind that you accepted the job despite the obvious carnal attraction between us. In fact, Watson, you _like_ it. You revel in the excitement, the very real prospect of working for me by day and coming home with me at night."

Holmes inched forward, crowding John against the wall behind him as the volley of deductions fell from his lips as easily as a conversation about the weather. His pale eyes smouldered, slicing through John's weak protests. John stared up at the man, wanting nothing more than to shove him away and bolt, or else he'd find himself attached to those sinful lips the rest of the night.

His chest heaved beneath his jumper, and he flinched at the chafe of fabric against his hardened nipples, where Holmes' fingers caressed him during their heated embrace. John inhaled slowly in an attempt to calm his thunderous heartbeat and the array of emotions raging through him.

"You can leave at anytime, John. I won't stop you if it's what you truly wish to do, but we both know that should you choose to stay," Holmes' burned, a low, sensual croon in his ears. He leant forward, bypassing John's lips, and dragged his own against the younger man's jaw, "I _will_ fuck you."

\----

The ride home to Lewisham was sullen and quiet. Shortly after Holmes' lewd promise in his ear, John had stuttered out an excuse to leave, and Holmes had dismissed him. He didn't leave the foyer until John was getting ready to board the lift. The entire time he'd been tidying up, Holmes' penetrating gaze never left him. It unnerved John, but the spike of pleasure he felt at the attention left him addled.

Holmes had given him a lot to think about.

Did he really want to work for someone he would eventually have a sexual relationship with? Holmes made it very clear what his intentions towards John were, and while the job hadn't been offered implicitly with sex in mind, he knew now what his employer wanted from him besides a personal assistant.

This had the potential to become very messy if things didn't play out smoothly between them, and John needed the work. He needed to be able to pay his own way when he moved with Mike to the new flat.

Every sane part of John screamed for him to get away while the window of opportunity was open. He didn't doubt a word of what Holmes had so seductively murmured into his ear. Thinking about it made all the blood in his body flow south in anticipation, eager to answer the primitive call of release. Holmes had unraveled him so quickly in those few moments of weakness, it made John wonder what a full night at the man's mercy would do to him.

When the cab finally pulled up at John's building, he quickly paid and jumped out, breathing in the cool night air as he jogged up the steps to his flat. No one was home to greet him when he walked in, though there were empty food wrappers on the table, along with a sink full of unwashed dishes.

John changed out of his work attire into a t-shirt and some comfortable flannel pyjama bottoms. He set to work tidying up the flat, welcoming the mindless tasks, eager to think of something other than the over-confident, insanely gorgeous tycoon that apparently wanted into his trousers.

John had just collapsed onto his bed, tired and overwhelmed by the day's events and wondering if he should even bother reporting to work the next day, when his phone emitted a soft ping on the side table.

Without turning, he flung out a hand and grabbed the phone, bringing it up to his eyes.

_Text message_ , it read, and directly beneath it, Sherlock Holmes, stood out in bright, bold letters. John gasped, his heart skipping a beat, and quickly slid a finger across the screen to pull up the message.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**I believe I may have been a bit forward with you today.**

**SH**

John snickered, unable to contain his amusement at a chastened Sherlock Holmes. Never thought he'd see that name in a sentence with that particular word.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Bit of an understatement**

John replied, wondering if maybe that came off a tad surly. Surely it wouldn't hurt to keep the man on his toes for a while.

A minute later, his phone pinged again with a new message from Holmes, and if John almost dropped the phone in his haste to read it, he avoided looking too closely into the reason why.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**I do not make it a habit to hire people whom I intend to pursue sexually. I will not rescind my job offer if you choose to keep our relationship strictly professional.**

**SH**

John released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Okay, so Holmes wasn't a complete arsehole, and he seemed to genuinely need someone to fill in for Janine while she was in cookery school. The thought eased whatever tension had been creeping into his shoulders, and John relaxed back on the bed, thinking of what to reply with.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Thank you for clarifying that. While I do find you attractive, I have a feeling this could get very messy, if you don't mind my saying**

He'd barely placed his phone down before John heard the notification sound. Someone was a little overzealous.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Perhaps, but you like messy.**

**SH**

Leave it to Holmes to take a perfectly innocent statement and mould it into something suggestive. It made John want to tear his hair out.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**You are absolutely infuriating. You know what I meant**

He sent his reply before quickly composing another text message.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**I will be there tomorrow, but I need time to think about your "offer"**

John pressed the send button before he could lose his nerve and laid back against the bed, thinking of Holmes’ gorgeous hands and greedy kisses.

Another ping from his mobile.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**You should know, John, that I value my work greatly and nothing comes before that. Relationships are not my area, and while I want you, I don't intend to take it any further than sex.**

**SH**

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**There are other things I have not yet told you about my proposition, but if you choose to go any further with me, I promise to divulge everything. It will require your consent.**

**SH**

' _Consent_?' John wondered dubiously. ' _What could Holmes possibly have in mind that would require my consent?_ '

Now John was curious to know what it was that Holmes wasn't saying. He was being cryptic and his choice of words were nothing if not alarming. God, this was probably exactly what he wanted; for John to be confused. Holmes dangled the information like bait, luring John in to bite, and unfortunately, it was working.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Why me?**

John threw an arm across his eyes, suddenly drained of the last vestiges of whatever energy he had left. He wanted to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, John could hear that baritone murmuring into his ear, the warmth of practiced hands wandering along his body, and Holmes' heat as he crowded John back against the wall.

He felt himself growing hard, his erection pressing against the fabric of his flannel pyjama bottoms.

Beside him, John's phone emitted a text message notification.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**I am unsure. It's not everyday I have such a strong reaction to someone. You are an anomaly that I would like to explore.**

**SH**

Unable to form a response to Holmes' straightforward response, John placed his phone back onto the nightstand and slid under the covers, one hand immediately moving down to massage his aching member. He groaned softly, remembering the way Holmes stood over him, imagined the way his cock would look straining against those tailored trousers.

John turned over and opened the drawer for his side table, fumbling clumsily for the tube of lubrication he kept there. For the lonely nights, when it was just him and the pleasure of his own hand. He popped the lid and squirted a drop into his palm, lowering it to smooth over his straining erection.

John closed his eyes and Holmes was kneeling in between his legs, one hand rubbing soothingly up the inside of John's trembling thighs. His lips chased the trail with soft, tiny nips until he reached the apex, where John's thigh met his groin. Holmes bit down and John arched his back at the sensation, hips rolling into the bed below him, back onto the exploratory finger that skirted the rim of his anus.

When Holmes moved away, a bright pink mark bloomed where he'd sucked the skin between his sharp teeth.

"What a lovely sight you make, John," Holmes whispered, pushing his sex against John's in slow circular rotations. "I could watch you like this all night. Your lips are swollen, your body is so beautifully spread out before me. You look _deliciously_ _debauched_." The last words were hissed against his ear before a hot mouth enveloped the lobe, suckling messily on the flesh.

John's eyes flew open, shattering the illusion as he came violently, semen splattering across the skin of his chest.

' _Jesus!_ '

Holmes wasn't there, but his presence had been so potent, almost tangible, and John was overcome with the desire to call the man and tell him all the things he would allow Holmes to do to him, with him.

God, he was so wrecked.


	5. The Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sarah does John a favor, and Sherlock gives John the power of choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know this is going a bit slow, but I promise, everything is building up to certain points. Please, be patient with me. A few things for this chapter: I used a few terms or references that might be confusing to some. 
> 
> \- Cacerolazo means casserole, but also is a form of protest in which the protestors basically make as much nose as possible, banging pots and pans, etc.. You can google this, as well, for more information. Knowledge is power.  
> \- I make a reference to Alfred, who is Batman's butler (Pop culture reference 101)
> 
> Also, I did have a playlist when I wrote this chapter, or rather, a few songs I just played on repeat! You can listen and read if you'd like, it's not required. You decide which part it goes with... 
> 
> Waiting Game by Banks  
> Slowly Freaking Out by Skylar Grey  
> Sewn by The Feeling
> 
> Whoo! Now that that's all said, I hope you enjoy the chapter. It's not too plotty, but the real stuff begins next chapter, I promise. I need to build up. Please, feel free to leave comments, kudos, critique, or whatever floats your boat. It's all very motivational, and I like hearing what my readers are thinking! Enjoy!
> 
> *Minor edits made 02/27/2016

 

John woke up the next morning, strangely disconcerted after all the oddness of the day before. His dreams had been full of dark-haired seducers and a long, pale body stretched out beneath his fingers.

By the time he'd fallen asleep after his spontaneous wank, the novelty of John's precarious situation with Holmes had worn off.

In the kitchen, Mike was doing his best rendition of a Cacerolazo protest, banging pots onto the cooker and dishes into the basin with an astounding lack of finesse. If John didn't know just how clumsy and unskilled Mike was in the kitchen, he would have assumed this was an intentional wake-up call.

The clock on the nightstand read **07.14** , which meant John had, at least, the better part of an hour to shower, dress, and enjoy a hot cuppa before catching a cab to the Wharf.

John turned over in bed, and pulled the sheet over his head, unable or unsure, he wasn't quite sure which yet, to wake up and face the day. His encounter with Holmes had been intense, and now he wasn't sure what to think about his strange, new employer. What exactly did Holmes want from him, and what made John so special?

John remembered the unabashed hunger in Holmes's eyes; it had fueled his own desire. He would be lying if he said that a part of him wasn't thrilled at this turn of events, but he was just as unsettled about the mysterious proposition. Did he really want to be tied up with a selfish, arrogant millionaire, who may or may not have hired him for sex?

John groaned. Just when he thought nothing ever happened to him, he had to go and be the nice guy, and do Mike a favor. Time had proven again and again, that a favor for Mike wasn't something that one could simply return from unscathed.

**07.30** , the clock blinked back at John, in bright, unwelcome digital font. If he allowed himself to lay there any longer, wallowing in self-pity, he really wouldn't have a job to ponder over.

In the bathroom, John's reflection regarded him with dull expectation. Indigo eyes, so dark, they were almost always mistaken for a deep brown from afar; dishwater blond hair, with the consistency of straw, most days, and acne scars that littered his cheeks, an ode to his tumultuous pubescent days. He couldn't even find himself attractive, and most days, picking up a bird was like a full scale climb up Mount Everest; the chances for failure were extremely high.

The shower was on, and John was glad for the steam shrouding the rather pathetic image he reflected.

The water was warm and soothing on his skin, washing away the stickiness of semen from the night before and the sweat of his feverish dreams. The steam danced around his body in thick, suffocating clouds, and suddenly, crawling back into bed and forgetting all about Holmes, was all John wanted to do.

Throughout his life, John came into contact with many men - and women - like Holmes: vain, unaccommodating, egocentric, and used to getting what they want. Often, John found those traits repellant and unattractive, but in Holmes, it seemed less forced and more innate.

The real question stood to be answered: What in the world was it that attracted  _John_ to Holmes? Holmes was undoubtedly aesthetically pleasing to the eye, with those cheekbones, sharper than a Damascus sword, and long legs he found himself compelled to worship with his lips. John had the visceral urge to drop to his knees and devote his body to whatever hedonistic ideals the man had.

John pulled himself from his introspection and carried on with his morning rituals. When he returned to his room, John was pleasantly surprised to see that it was no longer unoccupied.

Sarah had sprawled herself over John's bedspread, reading excerpts from an old medical text, while she lounged leisurely on her stomach. Her head, propped up by her palms, only tilted towards John in a casual acknowledgment.

John flopped down next to Sarah, already dressed in plain, black trousers and a grey jumper he'd thrown on in careless haste. He looked to his friend in a leery glare from the side of his eyes. "Sarah, you know I love when you visit, but what are you doing here so early?"

Sarah smiled, a cat that ate the canary kind, that has John scooting quickly in the opposite direction. What was it with him and devious friends?

Sarah snapped her text closed and rolled to her side, resting her weight on her elbow as she regarded John with a sceptical eyebrow at his fashion choice for the day. John tried not to stare at the way her cleavage pressed together when she sat that way; they were only friends, but he was still a man, after all.

"That's what you're wearing," Sarah asked, eyeing John dubiously.

John frowned down at his jumper in confusion, wondering what Sarah was about to nag at him about. Grey contrasted nicely with his eyes, or so an ex-lover had informed him after they'd had a bit of fun on sheets the same shade as said color. "What? What's wrong with it?"

Sarah rolled her eyes in exasperation, and gestured to the frumpy, oversized trainwreck John was wearing. "It's just, I think my grandfather has the very same jumper."

John glowered, picking up a pillow and hitting a giggling Sarah in the head two times, before relenting with a heavy sigh.

Sarah giggled a few moments more, before sobering up and poking John in the stomach. "Hey," she called softly, "seriously, how are you ever going to have Holmes eating out of your hand if you're dressed like an old codger?"

John blushed, refusing to acknowledge Sarah's statement. The girl was quick as a whip and she would know immediately if something happened between John and Holmes. In fact, the look she was throwing his way now, as he sat there blushing like a virgin, was proof enough that nothing got away from Sarah Sawyer.

Before John could open his mouth to defend himself, Sarah was on him like a dog with a scent. She sat up with a flourish and scuttled over until she was nearly nose-to-nose with him "John Hamish Watson, you will tell me what happened, and don't you dare bother telling me lies. You know I won't believe you. Did you have sex with him?"

God, did the woman ever leave anything be? John groaned in mental agony of the inquisition to come. So much for that hot cuppa he'd been looking forward to. Sighing, John ran a hand over his face in aggravation, while Sarah sat patiently with the air of a woman that had all day to wait.

"Okay, nothing happened-"

"John, what did I just say?" The eyebrow raise after that particular statement never did bode well for John or his fragile psyche, so he decided to go with the truth in this instance.

Sighing, he flopped back onto the bed, feeling wrung like a dish towel, and wishing so desperately that the bed would turn into a sinkhole and swallow him up. "We snogged at the office last night."

John waited with bated breath for Sarah's reaction to the news. His friend was no champion of Holmes, and John had no idea how Sarah would take that bit of information, so he kept his mouth shut. Anything further from him, she would have to take by torture, because John most certainly would not tell her that Sherlock had already propositioned him for sex.

Sarah snorted, drawing John's attention back to the woman, as she rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, reminiscent of a similar look he'd received from Holmes the day before. "Didn't see that coming," she spoke sardonically, though with more humour than cynicism. "Well then, she slapped both hands on her thighs and stood, "all the more reason to do this, then."

Sarah marched over to John's closet with steadfast determination. Jesus, he could already feel the migraine coming on.

"What's with this retro wardrobe, John," Sarah quipped disapprovingly in John's general direction, from the damp, dark abyss that was the back of his closet. His only answer to that was a two finger salute at the back of her pretty little head.

When Sarah emerged from the closet,she held an old ruby-coloured jumper he hadn't been able to fit in years. It hugged his body like a second skin, and he preferred his clothes to fit a little looser. Not like he had any bulging muscles to be proud of. In her other hand were the black trouser pants John liked to keep on hand for special occasions, such as dates, when his aim was to get a leg over. The trousers made his arse look spectacular; Sarah always did like him in those. 

Sarah threw the clothes on the bed and tapped her finger on her lips with a quick, speculative glance in John's direction. "Those will do," she muttered under her breath, before flying out of the room with a, "get dressed, I'll be back in a tic!"

Great, now Sarah was dressing him up like some kind of window mannequin, and time was slowly draining away. John wanted to beat Holmes to the office and have his tea waiting for him on the desk, as Janine instructed the day before. John might have still been a little indecisive about the job, but he still felt the desire to please Holmes, and show that he could still stay on task, even with all the 'distractions'.

John stood with a heavy sigh, determined to cut this little intervention down by halves, and disrobed from his earlier selection, into Sarah's carefully handpicked ensemble. The sweater used to be one of his favorites, during the first year of college, and had, in fact, awarded him Sarah's number, when first they met. Now it was snug over John's stockier frame, and left little to the imagination, in his mediocre opinion. The trousers were just as he remembered; tight, and they hugged his arse and thighs magnificently.

Just as John was zipping up, Sarah flew into the room, a smart, black blazer in hand, and a pair of Chelsea boots he's seen Mike wear a time or two, often for dates or events. The blazer was an old one, though very well kept, that Mike could no longer fit, as he'd begun to fill out a bit since he'd bought it.

Sarah closed the door behind her and looked John over with an appreciative smirk, smug and impressed with her handy work. "Here," she said tossing him the blazer, and placing the shoes down by his feet. "Good thing you boys are the same shoe size. At least Mike has some taste."

"Sod off," John chuckled, pulling the blazer on, before taking the shoes back to his bed, where he sat to put them on. The blazer wasn't too tight around his arms, and allowed room for him to move without feeling constricted. Surprisingly, the whole get up was quite comfortable. The boots were a nice finishing touch, and John found himself eager to see how it all came together.

When he turned, Sarah was smiling deviously, clutching a comb in one hand and a cannister of Morgan's Pomade in the other. John backed up, raising his hands up in defense against that rubbish she wanted to put in his hair. "For the love of - God, no Sarah, you are not putting that shite into my hair!"

Sarah laughed and stepped closer, her eyes turning softer and her lips, pouty, as she advanced with all the hypnotizing grace of a lioness waiting for the right moment to pounce. "Come _on_ , John! This is the final touch, and then it will be perfect!"

John dropped his hands and ran a hand through his yet-to-be tamed hair, and eyed his best friend shrewdly. "Why are you even doing all of this Sarah? You're going to make me late!"

"The quicker we get this over with, the sooner you can leave. Besides, I have my car; I'll even give you a lift; I promise."

_'Well,'_ John paused and speculated, _'a free ride doesn't sound like a bad proposition.'_

"Fine," he said aloud, "but after, that's it, Sarah, I mean it." John forced himself to be stern with his friend, but he could see that Sarah was suppressing laughter, and not at all taking his silent threat with any real umbrage. He tried to convince himself that he hadn't just resisted the urge to stamp his foot in indignation.

Sarah had him sit sideways on the bed while she kneeled behind John, and took the comb to his hair. Finally, he forced himself to relax under the careful ministrations of her fingers and the comb grating lightly over his scalp. His mind drifted to more pressing matters, like what he would say when next he was forced to interact with Holmes. It's not like John could avoid the man, being his new personal assistant and all, but the real challenge would be abstaining. Holmes was a walking temptation, and he knew it, and used it to his advantage, to all of John's horrible misfortune.

It was frightening how easy it had been to relinquish control to Holmes, and fall into the trap John was sure he'd set from the start. How much longer would he be able to resist? Sherlock was the serpent in the garden of Eden, and John was the unlucky sod who couldn't resist a taste of what he was offering; John knew a bite of that apple could lead to a while world of trouble. His boss was danger in a pretty package.

Sarah pulled away, and John waited a moment to be sure she was finished, before he stood and stretched. Behind him, Sarah was silent, and when he turned, he could see she was admiring him with a soft, nostalgic smile that set his stomach to fluttering.

"What," he inquired nervously, resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair, insecurely.

Sarah grabbed his hand and led him to the bathroom, covering John's eyes so he couldn't see himself until he was properly placed before the mirror. When she pulled her dainty fingers away, John gasped lightly.

"Jesus, Sarah, could you make me look anymore poncy?"

His hair was gleaming under the lights, strands of blond standing out like strings of gold, and slicked back in a classic Cary Grant coiffure. John's dark blue eyes stood out piercingly, and for once, John could see the appeal of cleaning up once in awhile. He looked damned good.

Behind him, Sarah giggled and crossed her arms under her chest. "Well if this doesn't get him randy, I don't know what will?"

John couldn't help but silently agree.

\---

The office was thankfully empty when John opened up for the morning. He'd been cutting it close as it was, so John made a beeline for the electric kettle, and started on a fresh, warm cup of tea to place on Holmes's desk before he arrived.

While waiting for the water to heat, John flipped on the lights, remembering the night before, the encounter at his desk, with the lights turned low and a slick, hot mouth against his own. Thinking of it made every hair on his body stand on end, and the skin of his cheeks turn pink in arousal.

Bourbon and cigarettes, a sinful elixir on his tongue, and John couldn't help but think of that taste when he thought of his illicit kiss with Holmes. Long, skillful fingers carding through his hair, and soft touches on his body; his thighs parting for that magnificent man to settle between. It was a fantasy turned reality, and last night it could have gone further, had John not regained control of himself.

John took deep, calming breaths, struggling to soothe his waking arousal and put his mind to the task at hand. If he was going to be stuck in the office with this man for the better part of the day, John couldn't get aroused every time Holmes crossed his mind.

When the water was ready, John retrieved the tea bag from the drawer in the desk where Janine indicated that she kept Holmes's preferred brand.

The hall echoed noisily as John walked to deliver the hot cup of tea to the office, hoping the door didn't have a lock. Janine hadn't left him any keys, so John guessed that Holmes would be the one to issue them, if there were any. Fortunately, the door was unlocked and John was easily able to slip in.

The room was bright and empty, and felt immensely larger without Holmes's presence. The man had a penchant for making enclosed areas seem smaller than they were, being such an imposing personality, and all. He placed the cup on the desk and looked around, curious.

The private office lacked any kind of personal effects. There were no family pictures on the desk, or knick-knacks on the table to hint at the secret life of Sherlock Holmes. The art on the wall was generic, nothing more than a bit of decor to add to the atmosphere of the opulent surroundings.

John wondered what the house of Sherlock Holmes would look like?

John turned to leave, not wanting to intrude any longer. The last thing he needed was to be cornered by his boss, and accused of snooping. He left, shutting the door quietly behind him, and walked back to the foyer.

Unfortunately for him, Holmes was standing at his desk, leaned against it casually, while he tapped away on his mobile. "Morning John," he stated, unable to tear his eyes away from the screen for only a moment.

_'What is it with him and that damned phone?'_

"Morning, Mr. Holmes," John returned, hoping to slip past Holmes, and to his seat without too much of a problem. The man had strategically placed himself on the side of the desk, so John would have to brush by in order to sit at the desk. For a man so intelligent, it was glaringly obvious he'd set a trap for him, but John was determined not to allow Holmes to win.

Holmes snorted, still refusing to look away from whatever highly important business was taking place on his phone. "Please, call me Sherlock. Holmes is my stalker of a brother. I'm sure he'll turn up here soon enough."

Sherlock finally glanced up, freezing John in his place, as the smug little smirk on his lips dried up once he noticed John's cleaned up look. Those pale eyes widened ever-so slightly, and his lips parted to release a long, slow, breath, that John was sure he wasn't supposed to hear.

The close perusal of his person made John feel warm all over, all leading to one, particular area. "Uh," John said, for lack of anything better to interrupt this tense moment, "your tea is on your desk."

Holm- no, Sherlock's gaze was dark and hungry as John stammered and fidgeted before him like some flustered, teenage girl. "John, you look..." Since the first time John found himself in the company of Sherlock, the man was near speechless, and somehow, this discovery, alone, gave John a sense of power. Maybe he could use this to his advantage.

John smiled, encouraging Sherlock to finish, but it was as if someone pressed pause. The older man was frozen, but his eyes were a myriad of emotions, flitting from lust, to surprise and confusion, and back again, like a color wheel.

John, realizing Sherlock might possibly never finish that sentence, advanced slowly, watching as the opalescent gaze of his boss followed every movement. Sherlock had managed to gain some of his composure by this point, and now his gaze was a steady laser beam, heated and clear. His jaw was clenched tightly, the muscles there pressed against his skin in stark relief.

John stopped a pace away, willing Sherlock to do something other than stare at him so intently. He was suffocating under the weight of that gaze, and _Jesus,_ his knees were begging to give out.

Sherlock tilted his head in silent curiosity, waiting to see what John's next move would be, his expression pensive  and calculating.

"I just have to... over there," John gestured awkwardly, wondering if he still held the queen in this game of chess they were playing. Sherlock smirked again and gestured to the small space between he and John, with one lazy movement.

The man was toying with him.

_'Touché, Sherlock. The game is on.'_

"Actually, I think I forgot to tidy up a bit over there," John stated, pointing to the area where he'd prepared Sherlock's tea. It wasn't a total lie, as he's been rushing to make tea for his boss before his arrival, and left the area a right mess; now it was a perfect opportunity to avoid Sherlock's less than subtle attempt at closing the distance between them.

What in the world did he think he was doing? It was a classic game of cat and mouse, except he would gladly surrender if Sherlock caught him. John was dangerously teetering between wanting to get as far as possible from Sherlock, yet, under that stare, he was a mindless thrall, unable to control his body nor the desire.

Stepping away was painful, turning his back on that beautiful man. All he'd wanted to do was plant himself between those long legs and wrap himself around Sherlock like a Boa Constrictor. Every step away felt like a great distance between them, stretching further and further, and John could feel the stare burning through him.

Down below, his cock was swelling with blood, and John prayed this moment would be over soon, for the sake of his anatomy, and he'd also like to leave with some of his dignity, please and thank you very much.

Behind him, John could hear a soft exhale, but what he did not expect, was the soft puff of air on his neck.

A long-fingered hand circled around his waist, slow and dauntless, skirting up his chest and pulling him back into a solid body. "I'm not in the habit of lowering myself to asinine proverbial phrases, regarding the likelihood of burning yourself, whilst playing with fire, Mr. Watson. I'm quite certain you're intelligent enough to know what you're doing."

John released a shaky breath, wondering how he'd allowed Sherlock to come so close without hearing a single thing. The smell of expensive aftershave and cigarettes, minus the bourbon, filled his nose like a poignant aphrodisiac to his senses. "Why, Mr. Holmes, I have no idea what you might be referring to." It was a weak demurral at best, and Sherlock only scoffed at the absurdity of it.

Sherlock brought his lips down to John's ear, breath tickling the skin of his cartilage, sweet and mint-scented. "I can assure you, John that whatever it is you're doing," he paused, planting a light, intimate kiss to the skin behind John's ear, "it won't work. The next we meet this way, you will ask me for what you want, and if I am satisfied that _this_ ," Sherlock pulled him back sharply, so that John could feel the hard cock pressing into the small of his back, "is what you _truly_ desire, I will give it to you."

Abruptly, Sherlock released him and strode back across the foyer, tossing his coat over John's desk carelessly. "Hang that for me, if you will. I'm sure Janine left you a list of things I need completed by the end of the day. Best get started on that or you'll be putting in extra hours, John. Tick-tock." The man had his eyes back on the phone, studiously ignoring John's wide-eyed stare as he retreated down the hall, and to his office.

\---

The first half of the day saw John seeking respite behind his desk after the utterly embarrassing debacle with his boss that morning. After Sherlock holed himself in his office, John was left red-faced and hard, wondering if he'd dug himself a deeper grave than before.

John was thankful for the work Janine left behind; he'd rather bury himself in papers and reports, than dwell on his most recent interaction with his employer.

Answering phones wasn't too much of a challenge for him, and he found that the majority of calls were from companies on the list of dismissals. It wasn't until close to his lunch time that anything interesting happened.

John had been so focused on a particularly aggravating report on excel, he hadn't noticed someone step out of the lift and into the foyer.

"Er, hello." John nearly jumped out of his skin at the gruff, bemused greeting of a handsome, dark-haired gentleman in an ill-fitting suit. Here, he looked almost as out of place as John felt. "I've never seen you here before. Never imagined Sherlock would be rid of Janine."

John stared up into soft, chocolate eyes, determining just how much information he should be forthcoming with. The man seemed friendly, however, just a bit confused. John stood and held out a hand, which the gentleman took with a genial smile. "John Watson," he introduced, forcing himself not to wince at the strong grip. "I'm just filling in for Janine three days out the week, while she's in cookery school."

"Greg Lestrade," the man returned kindly, "Finally went for it, did she? Good on her. Eh, is your boss around?"

John nodded, reaching for the phone as he day down in his seat.

The phone rang once, before Sherlock picked up with a brusque, "What is it?"

Wasn't the man just a model of courtesy.

"Mr. Holmes, I have a Greg Lestrade here to see you." John thanked the gods his voice was steady over the line, even though Sherlock's deep baritone had his heart doing a 5k race inside his chest.

"Oh. What does he want," Sherlock snapped out impatiently, and John looked up at the man, who only blinked with a gentle smile. John placed a hand over the receiver and tried to make the question as nice as possible.

"Mr. Holmes would like to know what is the reason for your visit..." Yeah, that was the best he had. On the other end, Sherlock was grumbling into his ear like a sulking teenager.

"Don't sugar coat it, John, I assure you, he's heard worse."

Lestrade rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest in a long suffering gesture that indicated the man was very familiar with, and unfortunately, used to dealing with Sherlock. "You tell that bloody bastard I wouldn't be here if he'd bother to answer his damned phone!"

John winced, hoping Sherlock could hear, so he wouldn't have to relay the message in those words, exactly. Thankfully, Sherlock had ears like an owl. "Tell him I prefer to text, which he knows by now, I'm sure. Lestrade does so love to make my life difficult."

Really, these were grown men, bantering back and forth like children, yet John really had no room to speak after that morning's happenings. Again, he placed his hand over the receiver, and turned to Lestrade. "He says he prefers to text."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, and John thought about telling the man that he was only the messenger. "You tell that prat to get out here; we have business to attend to. There's been another one."

"I'll be there momentarily," Sherlock replied, before hanging up the phone without a word from John. 

Placing the phone back into the cradle, John looked up to see the other man regarding him with a tiny smirk, though infinitely less annoying than the one Sherlock always gave him. "What," John inquired. It was a secretive look, once that he wasn't quite sure he appreciated from the stranger, but the man only broke eye contact, folding his hands behind his back in an awfully faux display of innocence.

"Nothing," Lestrade returned cheekily, "nothing at all."

The moment seemed to stretch on forever, until finally, the sound of Sherlock's Italian leather brogues, clicking loudly against the marble, filled the silence. "Another one London's Finest couldn't solve with their tiny, little brains, I assume," was Sherlock's snarky greeting to Lestrade, though the man didn't seem the least bit perturbed by it. Yeah, he was definitely desensitized to the Sherlock-affect. John's employer was a certified nutter. "My coat, John," Sherlock stated, with a flourishing gesture in John's general direction.

_'You pretentious arsehole,'_ John quietly seethed, stepping with far too much force, to retrieve the overlarge, poncy coat for its equally poncy owner.

John made to hand it to him, but Sherlock only turned around with his arms out, away from his sides.

_'Oh, you pompous, fucking-'_

Sherlock turned at John's hesitation with an icy glare that didn't nothing to uproot John from his frozen position, though he could see a glimmer of mischief in those pale eyes. "Sometime today, John."

Determined not to make an arse of himself in front of Lestrade, John smiled, though not at all warm, and pulled the coat over Sherlock's arms. Since when had he become Alfred? Sherlock swiveled around, his coat flaring out dramatically as he pulled the lapels of his coat together, and over the tight shirt straining across his chest.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock spoke softly, bringing John's attention back to those supple lips, and the light smirk that played on them. As much As John fought against Sherlock, it was so damned easy to fall into him. It would be such a simple feat to surrender, allow Sherlock to take control. John had never slept with a man before, but he was sure that his employer would teach him all the ways in which to pleasure a man in a thousand different manners. John ached for that. His eyes flicked up involuntarily, catching on the ones boring into him from above. They were hungry and assessing, and John wouldn't be surprised if his own were, also.

John licked his lips, nervous, and Sherlock's eyes tracked the progress of his tongue. God, why did he have to be so tempting?

Lestrade cleared his throat pointedly, from where he stood by the lift, rocking back onto the heels of his shoes with an indulgent grin. "If the two of you are quite finished, Sherlock, we need to get going."

Immediately, John could see the shutters come down, and Sherlock's lips press into a firm line as his face became a blank canvas, effectively severing whatever moment they were having. "Yes," he stated. Turning, he followed Lestrade into the lift, "I'll have my driver bring me there. I'm not riding in your police..."

When the lift closed, it was only John, an empty foyer, and a head full of confusing thoughts.

 


	6. The Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is visited by a very interesting guest while closing up, and spends the evening drinking away his woes.

Nothing, John thought to himself naïvely, nothing could possibly happen half an hour before his departure. Of course, he'd been wrong.

After Sherlock left with the Lestrade gentleman at noon, he hadn't returned. John spent the rest of the day typing up boring reports (one of which, he'd found himself drifting off halfway through) and thwarting attempts from aggressive businessmen, eager to get themselves a place on Sherlock's overflowing schedule.

For a man with so little time, John couldn't help but wonder how Holmes could spend so much of it in his office.

After a light supper from the canteen, and a bit of tidying up, there was nothing much left to do, and John found himself twiddling his thumbs.

Everything about the day had been odd and more than slightly awkward, what with the exchange with the unexpected visitor, and the sultry encounter with Sherlock. The man's capability of crawling so deftly beneath his skin was alarming, and if that wasn't a sign that John should run the other way at the first chance, then he didn't know what was.

The problem lie in the fact that John found Sherlock fascinating, and though he would never confess to being damned near besotted with his employer, that's exactly what he was. John found the temptation of Sherlock erotic and impossible to ignore. When he allowed himself to come anywhere near the man, John was no longer in control of his body, and his mind was, most assuredly, a slippery slope.

Sarah would have a field day if she knew just how much John had already succumbed to Sherlock's advances in the little time they'd known one another.

John's lack of self control around Sherlock was detestable and already an unmitigated disaster. What was it about the man that could have John minutes away from dropping trou just as soon he stepped into a room? Just as it made his body hum in ecstasy, John was also annoyed with himself for being so amenable.

Again, John found himself despairing of his split decision to take the position as Sherlock's personal assistant. His libido was certifiably overworked and overwhelmed.

Soon enough, John was finally cutting the lights in the lobby when the lift emitted a soft ding, opening with little more than a whisper of sound.

"Well, I see Sherlock hasn't wasted any time getting you into his office."

A sense of dread welled up before he could turn his head to look. The voice was familiar in cadence, a slow, seductive drawl that catapulted his pulse into hyperactivity. It seemed what little fortune he'd had stored away, had finally dried up. With a deep breath, he turned to greet his guest.

 It was the beautiful woman John remembered seeing with Sherlock at the café, all sleek, long legs and five-inch Gucci heels that screamed haute couture. Her prominent neckline was exposed in a low-cut, backless lace dress that stopped mid-thigh, revealing miles of pale, flawless skin.

Good God, the woman was walking wank material.

John didn't even know her very well, but already, he felt envy rear it's ugly head, a tight, palpable grip in his chest when he thought about Sherlock being involved with someone like _her_.

She stepped into the room like she owned it, and immediately, John felt as though he were the one trespassing. The woman's keen, green eyes were scanning the room with a sharp, knowing gaze.

So obviously she was familiar with the place.

_'Irene,'_ John remembered Sherlock calling her, but he still felt the need to ask. He didn't want her thinking he was threatened at all by her presence, or that he hadn't forgotten her since the uncomfortable first meeting at the café.

"Um... and who might you be," John asked, though the smirk she shot his way assured him that Irene was very aware that she'd been remembered. She seemed the type of woman to make lasting impressions wherever she went, and anything else was unacceptable. Everything about her demanded attention, from the scarlet lipstick, to the sharp nails he could see pressing into her biceps as she folded her arms over her chest.

"No one you need to worry your pretty little head over, dear," she purred, throaty and low, "but just for the sake of keeping things cordial, the name's Irene. Irene Adler."

As she introduced herself, the woman's bright gaze never left John's, searching and coy beneath a wave of dark lashes. "Well aren't you pretty," she smiled, though to John, it was more like a salacious baring of teeth. Without so much as a by your leave, Irene strutted around the table and down the hall, intent on barging in on Sherlock without proper admittance.

John followed hurriedly behind her, unsure what he was meant to do, or if this was a regular occurrence. For all John knew, Irene was Sherlock's business partner, or lover, or whatever weird arrangement the man was sure to have. All of it was completely frustrating.

Before he could move to block her entrance, the woman threw the heavy wooden doors open, an admirable feat in itself, peering around the room for a glimpse of a tall, pale figure decked out in the usual bespoke.

Irene scoffed, throwing her perfectly coiffed head around to smirk slyly at John. "Your boss is quite skilled in evasion, if you hadn't figured yet," she spoke glibly, though there was a hint of annoyance there that gave John a bit of grudging satisfaction. "I thought I'd been rather vague about my intention to pay him a little visit this week."

Obviously the woman loved to hear her own voice, the way she nattered on, but John found himself hoping she would give up some hint as to her connection with Sherlock. "I hadn't realized he was expecting anyone. Would you like me to call him?" John kept his tone light and amiable, though the thought of seeing her with Sherlock again left a bad taste in his mouth.

Why was he so jealous of her? It's not as if this thing with Sherlock might go anywhere in the near future. The indecent proposal was still on the table, but then, who was this woman who could sweep so commandingly into the room and make demands? John might not always think much of himself, but he most certainly wasn't going to be anyone's bit on the side.

Irene smirked at his offer, though she'd pulled out a phone and was texting rapidly. "Oh, don't bother. Sherlock isn't one for phone conversations. He prefers to text." She smirks again, that irritatingly attractive simper that makes him feel like a child being indulged. "You must be dreadfully bored, with no one to keep you company. Personally, I find it rather stuffy here," she stated dryly, bright gaze wandering over the chrome fixtures of the lights overhead, and the colourless walls.

John shrugged once her eyes landed upon his person, trailing down his front in a calculated, assessing once-over. "I've a feeling I could get used to this." After years of slumming it in a dodgy flat with Mike, the lavish surroundings were nothing to sniff at.

John watched cautiously as she swaggered towards him, all sexual undertones and secretive smiles. When she stopped in front of him, one red-lacquered nail came up to tease the line of his jaw. "I'm quite sure Sherlock doesn't know what to make of you yet, but I've dealt with my fair share of boys like you, before."

John bristled, resisting the urge to flinch away from her boldly curious finger, but his inquisitiveness was rooting his feet to the ground. "What do you mean, boys like me?" What could this woman _possibly_ know about John after five minutes of swanning about the office like some bloody-minded fairy?

Irene gave a light titter of amusement, pulling her finger away as she turned and headed for the foyer. "You're cute when you're angry," she throws over her shoulder, like an afterthought, "I once had a kitten like you. Fiery little thing, that one."

She stopped, as if lost in her own musings, before she turned to regard John with a piercing stare that cut straight through the skin. "But all it took was a bit of time and patience, before I had that little beast eating out of my hand."

John found that he could not say a word under Irene's scrutiny. Her presence was like a sweltering, suffocating fog in the room; heavy and domineering. For such a small woman, she struck John as an imposing figure, one that very many wouldn't cross. Though Irene portrayed herself as a beautiful, quick-witted temptress, just underneath, her green eyes were hard like diamonds; cold and impenetrable. It was the same deep nothingness he couldn't help but notice whenever he looked into Sherlock's, and John wondered if this was where Irene and Sherlock's roads met. Could they both be of the same character; cold, callous powerhouses that were simply looking for the next interesting thing to come their way?

"Are we done here," John inquired, voice steady against the icy weight pressed against his sternum. If his words were a bit snappish, well... he couldn't be blamed much for it. Every muscle in his body was tense and on edge, repelled by Irene's very presence. There was something about her that was not on, and John was anxious to have her gone.

Irene grabbed her clutch from where it lay, tossed carelessly over the desk, as if it hadn't costs a few hundred pounds, or rather, John's half of the rent on his measly little shared flat. "Well, it's nice that we could have this little chat." The muscles of her back rippled and flexed enticingly as she strolled leisurely to the lift, a light sway to her hips that came naturally. "I like you, John Watson, you're quite the charming fellow. I'm sure Sherlock will have his hands full in the days to come. The idiot probably hasn't disclosed a thing to you, yet." She turned at the threshold of the lift.

Under the low light of the foyer, Irene's smile was bright and toothy, her blood red lips a siren's call for the weak-willed. "I'm sure I don't know what you're referring to," John muttered, ready for this interaction to come to a conclusion. Irene really did like the sound of her own voice.

Irene threw her head back in a dramatic laugh that stretched her pale throat into a long, tantalizing line. If John wasn't so annoyed by her presence, maybe he would have found it an attractive display. "Of course you don't, dear. Forgive me if I'm being a bit cryptic. I really can't fault you for your ignorance on the matter."

_'Too bloody right, you can't,'_ John thought contemptuously. He really was tired of all the vague statements and layers of hidden meanings. For once, could one of these people just be direct? John had better things to be doing with his mind than running mental laps around something ambiguous Sherlock may have said.

Irene arched a perfectly shaped brow as the lift door dinged softly and opened. Before she stepped in, she turned for the last time, eyes a softer hue of green than before, trick of the light, John assumed. The smirk was there, still, just barely pulling at the corners of her lips. "The wildest ones really are the most fun to tame," Irene muttered below her breath, with a hint of nostalgia, and then louder, "I've a feeling you'll be making waves, soon, darling."

With a parting wink, the woman stepped into the lift, and whipped her phone out, effectively dismissing John as the doors closed.

It took a full five minutes for John to realize he'd never told Irene his name.

 

\---

 

In the ride back to the flat, all John could think of was going to the pub and getting thoroughly pissed, because really, the day had gone to hell quicker than he'd anticipated.

John wondered if there would ever be 'just a normal day at the office'. It really didn't look like it was shaping up to be that way, working at Holmes Pharmaceuticals. What madman would walk through those lift doors, next?

John made a mental note to ask Janine the next time he saw her, what a normal day at Holmes Pharmaceuticals entailed.

His head was pounding with the wave of information that came with Irene's visit to the office. It was obvious that the woman was just as barmy as Sherlock, if not more so, and someone close to him. Sherlock seemed like a man who valued his privacy, and yet, Irene stepped into his office as if she'd done so many time before, without fear of repercussion. Who was she to Sherlock?

There were a thousand new questions, all fighting to be answered first, and John's head was hammering beneath the onslaught.

So, great. Not only was Holmes a danger to his mental wellness, but apparently, he was also now detrimental to John's health.

The sensual memory of Sherlock standing behind him, the warmth of his hardness pressed against the small of John's back, replayed itself like a silent film in his mind's eye. It brought back the nervous flutters in his stomach, and unfortunately, caused his pants to sit a bit uncomfortably against his affected groin.

No sooner than the cab had pulled up to the kerb, John wasted no time paying the cabbie with a gracious nod, and making his way inside.

Mike was sitting at the kitchen table (the only place to fit a table in their tiny flat, really), hunched over an intimidating pile of papers. His eyes were underlined with heavy pouches, red and slightly manic.

John pulled out the chair adjacent, sitting down gingerly as he regarded his friend with concerned caution. "You look like shit, Mike," he said, by way of greeting. "What exactly are you tearing out hairs over?"

The house was dark, save for the dim kitchen light overhead, and the continual stream of headlights reflecting through the window. Mike groaned, throwing down his biro and rubbing his temples. "I have this godforsaken paperwork to finish up before I begin my internship. I didn't realize how close the deadline was. Funny that, considering how excited I am about starting."

"I don't know, mate, seems like you might need to stretch your legs a bit, yeah?"

Mike shook his head solemnly, pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes with trembling fingers. "Can't. I have to get this done by tonight. Kate and I have a thing tomorrow evening, and she'll murder me if I'm hung over."

John sighed happily beneath his breath. Ah, the single life was not something he'd be working to get rid of any time soon. He didn't envy Mike's constraints on his social life, now that his friend had a bird on his arm.

Unbidden, the image of large hands splayed over his waist, holding him fast, and bow-shaped lips came to his mind, forcing the smile to morph into something like sympathy for Mike. He wasn't Sherlock's, but he mine as well be, for all the time he spent thinking of the man.

When he realized Mike was observing him from his seat at the table, John straightened up and plastered the smile back over his face, hoping his expressions weren't as loud as his thoughts. "Well, I'm going to have a pint or two, and I think you," John said, leaning over the table and pulling the unfinished paperwork from beneath Mike's fists, "should join me."

Mike's expression was the definition of apprehension, but John wasn't going to force the issue. Either he was going to join John in getting pissed, or he was going to do it alone. Either way,John was not ending the night sober and wanking to memories of a certain millionaire.

"Well, you think about it, and I'm going to go change out of these stuffy clothes," John relented, standing up and offering his friend a light grin. His head was throbbing and all he wanted was a pint to forget about the day he'd had.

John's rush to leave the room didn't alleviate the feeling of Mike's eyes following him as he went. He knew his friend was thinking of Harry, his sister, as always whenever it seemed John was turning to the bottle for comfort. Mike had been there when things had become really bad with Harry's alcoholism, and he worried that John would fall into the same tendencies.

John couldn't fault Mike his logic, but he remembered all too well, the nights spent watching over his sister as she wretched repeatedly in the loo, alternating between borderline comatose and snippets of consciousness.

It was the worst thing John would ever sit through, watching Harry suffer and not being able to do a thing about it, but wait until she'd purged the alcohol out of her system. After that, John knew he could never let his drinking get like that.

John shrugged off the blazer, though kept the jumper on. He could admit that it fit nicely, and the attention from Sherlock had been flattering, as well as the few complimentary looks he'd garnered during his trip to the canteen. He shucked the trousers and Chelsea boots for a comfortable pair of jeans and trainers, notably more comfortable than before.

When John emerged from his bedroom, Mike was already slipping on his worn out trainers and a thin billfold into his pocket. "Yes, Kate, I promise I won't get drunk. Yes - yes, love, tomorrow evening, I won't forget."

John snickered at his friend's mollifying, though he couldn't deny the fact that Mike and Kate adored one another, and he was happy for them. He wondered if things had worked out with Sarah, would they have been the same way? The thought is sobering, and John is forced to remember that a few moments ago, he was silently rejoicing in the fact that he was single.

Shaking his head at himself and his unreliable thoughts, John grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and threw it on at the door. "So, The Watch House?"

"Always," Mike grinned, gesturing to the door, and then they were taking off down the pavement, setting a leisurely pace to the pub on High Street.

As it was a week night, there wasn't much activity on the streets in the evening, so the walk was easy and the air, light, without the body heat of large crowds. By the time they arrived at The Watch House, Mike had warmed to the idea of imbibing a pint or two, and John was thoroughly convinced that there was nothing else he'd rather do than sink into a booth and allow a pale ale to sink in, smooth and soothing.

The crowd wasn't as dense as it would be on a weekend, but the atmosphere was thick with loneliness, and sorry souls drinking away their woes. John found himself despicably satisfied that he wasn't the only one there feeling woefully inadequate to continue the day without some form of self-medicating.

John found a booth not far from the door and slid in, while Mike made a beeline for the bar to order the first round. A gentle buzz from his pocket pulled his attention from the window, and before he could stop himself, John had the phone in his hand, anxiety a shock of static in his gut.

An email, though, not one of any relevance.

There was an inexplicable jolt of disappointment at not seeing Sherlock's name across his screen. John hadn't even realized he'd been waiting to hear from him, yet, from the moment the man left his presence, John could admit that he wanted to communicate with Sherlock in some form, any form.

Idly, John thought about what the man might be up to now, or if he was with _her_.

Jealousy welled up, dark and heavy... angry. Why would Sherlock offer him a sexual proposition if he was already otherwise entangled, and the last thing John wanted to do was cross a woman like Irene. He doubted that she would be such a charming individual if John encroached upon her liaison with his employer.

The obvious answer to Sherlock's proposition, was a big fat 'No', so why did every nerve in his body rebel against that response?

"Here we are," Mike said, setting down a bottle in front of John.

"Oh, God, yes," he groaned, reaching to wrap a lustful hand around the bottle. The first sip was pure bliss, a slow draw that slipped down his throat and settled in his stomach like a sweet, warm nectar. Sated, for the first time in what seemed like forever.

Mike took a draw from his pint as well, before settling back into the bench, a genial smile aimed at John. "So," he started, and John immediately knew this conversation wasn't going to be a good one. Nothing good ever came from an inquisitive Mike. "Now that you're the envy of everyone in the med student community, mind telling me how the new job is coming?"

John wanted to ignore the question and avert Mike's attention to lighter topics, but his flatmate wasn't the type to be diverted easily. John scratched his head idly with a free hand, wondering if he should leave out the minutiae of his exploits with Sherlock. He was sure that Mike wouldn't want to hear that what was supposed to be a 'paid internship' is turning out to be a game of 'who will succumb to their baser urges first'.

'Um, good I guess," John murmured reluctantly. "Holmes is a bit... eccentric, but nothing I can't handle." Might be a bit of a stretch, considering the man caused John's heart to leave the immediate vicinity of his chest, at minimum, three times a day. "The work is a bit dull, but..." John trailed off, shrugging, hoping that Mike would pick up on his reluctance to talk about work and Mister 'Wanna-take-you-over-the-electric-kettle' Holmes.

"So, the two of you are getting on, then," Mike asked, though the look in his calm, blue eyes was knowing and soft with amusement.

John shrugged again, bringing the bottle to his lips, looking anywhere but at his curious flatmate. "You could say that," he finished dryly, wishing that the ale could hit him - and Mike - a little sooner, drag him under until he couldn't remember a thing.

Fortunately, Mike took the hint, and they quickly changed topics to something silently agreed upon. Mike spoke of his impending internship, while John 'hm'ed and chimed in at all the right times.

By the third round, John was feeling lighter, and his belly was warm from the ale. Slowly, thoughts of Sherlock became fuzzy and scattered, until the only thing left was the memory of how he felt standing behind him. That long, lithe body, and John's urge to touch, pull, shove, grab, take. God, he wanted the man, but Sherlock wasn't there, and suddenly, John wanted so urgently for him to be.

By the fifth, Mike had gone to the bathroom to relieve himself and John could barely keep his eyes at half mast. He pulled his phone out and squinted. No new messages. A forlorn sigh pushed its way past his lips, tickling, and John couldn't help the little giggle that followed.

Sod this. When did John Watson _pine_ over anyone. This could all be just as easily solved with a simple phone call. No need to jump through all these complicated hoops.

With more trouble than he'd expected, John pushed himself out of the bench and stumbled outside, excusing himself when he'd stepped on a few feet on the way to the exit.

Outside, the air was stagnant and moist with the promise of a night shower, though thankfully, the clouds looked to be holding out. John pulled his phone out and leaned back against the wall of the pub to steady himself. The shaky breath that left his throat had nothing to do with his sobriety, or lack thereof, and everything to do with the little green button he'd pressed next to Sherlock's number.

Before John could change his mind and hang up, that low baritone came through the line, crisp and clear. "John?"

Sherlock's voice was rough, as if he hadn't used it in a while, or if he'd been sleeping. It brought John to attention quicker than any porn ever could, that's for sure.

"...Uh... Sherlock, I- I didn't...," John stammered, unsure what to say now that he had Sherlock on the phone, waiting for him to state his reason for calling, but here John was, stammering like a fool.

Sherlock didn't make a sound, nothing to aid John in finding his words, though John knew he was there, could hear his breathing through the line.

John's head was spinning and the noise outside suddenly seemed amplified. He smiled at the ridiculousness of his current predicament, rubbing his free hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I called you. I just-," he stopped, swallowed, "I can't stop thinking of you, and I think I hate you a little for that."

"You're drunk." It was a statement, far from a question, and too well spotted to be anything other than true. "Where are you?"

John chuckled, allowing it to taper off into the night as he realized the timbre of Sherlock's voice had gone dangerously soft. He leaned his head back against the building, tired and currently unsure which way was up. "Why? So you can come tell me how bad I've got it. You do like to gloat, Mr. Holmes...," he let the words settle, before he started up again. "I met your girlfriend today. Charmer, that one."

On the other end, Sherlock sighed loudly, and John could hear the rustle of cloth against cloth, the sound of keys jingling. "You're rambling, John. Any other time, I would find it quite endearing, but right now, I need you to tell me where you are."

John sighed happily, feeling that voice flow through him like a liquid balm. He could bottle that voice and listen to it at night; he'd have no trouble getting to sleep, then. "Do you know you have the most amazing voice. You should let me keep it. Can we trade? I mean, it's not like you're doing anything with it, anyway, besides seducing unsuspecting PA's... and overbearing women with a thing for taming wild kittens."

"Wild kittens... John, what on Earth are you on about," Sherlock replied, honestly bewildered by John's innermost thoughts bursting inconveniently from drink-loosened lips.

John laughed, loud and careless, causing a few pedestrians to cast a brief, startled glance in his direction. Across the street, a couple of birds looked his way and giggled. John waved back, absurdly enthusiastic.

"I'm at this pub... The Watch House, I think," John admitted, twisting his head around to peer up at the large, curving letters on the sign. "Better hurry. I think I'm about to be very acquainted with the pavement. We've met before, you see. He's not a very good friend, though."

John could hear Sherlock talking to someone away from the phone, muffled, though his tone was unmistakably sharp and urgent. When he returned the phone to his ear, Sherlock didn't sound pleased at all. "John, don't you dare pass out. Stay where you are; I'll be there shortly."

John wavered, feeling disconnected from his body. Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could get his feet off the ground. The sky was endless, a myriad of twinkling, distant sparks of light, and John wanted to be up there, too. Sod Earth, there was nothing fun down here.

John focused on breathing, calm, steady breaths to chase away the nausea. Mike hadn't emerged from the pub, but he could see that his flatmate had sent him a few text messages.

**To: Mike S.**

**Mfine, shlock is comin 2 she mendkdf**

 

Shit, now auto correct was giving him hell. God, why not just take a dive into the Thames, and put an end to all his first world problems!

**To: Mike S.**

**Sorry, that one got way from me a bit. I mean Sherlock is coming to eat me.**

 

John pressed send and waited for a response. His text had been full of errors, but that would have to do, because John did not have the brain capacity to fight auto correct right now.

**From: Mike S.**

**Why is Sherlock coming to eat you?**

 

The question lit up on his screen, nearly brought John to tears in his amusement.

**To: Mike S.**

**I dunno**

 

The response was almost immediate.

**From: Mike S.**

**Okay. M going home**

 

**From: Mike S.**

**Be careful.**

 

Before John could muster up the sobriety to reply, a sleek, black car pulled quickly to the kerb, and the back door flew open without preamble.

Holmes emerged, lips pressed into a thin line as his shrewd, cold eyes assessed John thoroughly. John smiled, but it didn't last long, because Holmes was crowding him against the wall the next moment, teeth bared. "You idiot," he hissed, and John could feel the frustration radiating off of him like a viable entity. "Look at you, anyone could have taken you off the streets and had their way!"

John smiled shakily at the thought, staring up at Sherlock with glassy eyes and a fluttering heart. "Do you want to," he asked, cheeky and suggestive. He stretched up on his toes and pressed his body against Sherlock's, relishing the sensation of a solid chest against his own, beating the same rhythm. "I bet you like this, having me all pliable and loose in your arms, some damsel you can take back to your lair and pick apart."

Sherlock was breathing hard against John's cheek, loud in their private little spot, interrupted by the occasional drunken laugh from inside the pub. When John looked up, he met those dark, predatory eyes, cutting right through all of his meagre defenses.

When Sherlock spoke, it was low and rugged, a man tempted and restraining himself. "I would never take you for a damsel, my dear John," Sherlock planted a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek and skirted his nose up until it rested beside John's, those lips at the corner of John's own. "You're a man, and when the time comes, I'll take you like one."

_'Oh, God.'_

The sudden shock of air brought John back into his body when Sherlock pulled away. The man grabbed his hand and pulled him across the pavement and into the backseat, the car pulling away from the kerb and into light traffic as soon the they were securely inside.

Soon, they were leaving Lewisham and headed to Westminster, according to Sherlock. That was the only question John could manage before his tongue got too heavy and his eyelids began to droop. On the other side of the bench, Sherlock alternated between tapping away at his phone screen and watching John. Even in the dark, his eyes stood out like crystal gemstones, reflecting light, and also disdain at John's intoxicated state.

When they'd reached the Marylebone district, Sherlock shook him awake, wiping a bit of drool from the side of his lips with a careful thumb. When the car finally pulled round to a four-storey flat building on Baker Street, John was wide awake.

" _This_ is where you live," John asked, dumbstruck. He was expecting Venetian fountains and French doors, not old, crumbling steps and an unsecured entrance.

Sherlock glared slightly, before pushing John out of the backseat, onto unsteady feet. "Yes, it's discreet and at the centre of London. Perfect for my work. Useless extravagance is more my brother's tastes."

"Ah," John agreed, taking the steps slowly, so as not to face plant. "It's... nice. Very homey."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and opened the door, leaning against it as John stumbled his way past, prepared to catch him if he lost his footing.

John groaned when he saw the stairs leading up to a closed door, unsure he could successfully traverse the steps, also known as, death traps for drunk people. "Just let me lay out here; I'll be fine, I swear."

Sherlock heaved the most put upon sigh in the history of burdened individuals, and pulled John by the arm, up one step at a time. "Don't be ridiculous, John. You're going to sleep off this ridiculous inebriation, and then we'll talk about how I don't tolerate thoughtless fools coming to work insensible from a hangover."

John growled once they made it into the flat, pulling his arm away from the rough hold, and rubbing it back from numbness. "You know, you don't have to be so rough, Mr. Holmes, because if this is a reflection of what you're like in bed-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Sherlock pulled him forward roughly, into a heaving chest, and everything John had been about to say, flew right out the window.

"While your shameless honesty under these circumstances is rather intriguing, I would advise you not to speak so glibly about how I may or may not want to have you, because at this moment, I am resisting the urge to truss you up on my bed and teach you a lesson."

John exhaled sharply, his mind unable to come back with anything other than a tremulous, "Lesson?"

Sherlock smiled, though it was all teeth and little humour. Mostly, his eyes bore into John's, steady and depthless, until John could no longer stand it, and his eyes flicked down to the invitation Sherlock's mouth presented. "Oh, yes," Sherlock rumbled, deep and guttural, fueled with want and arousal, "because there's no way I would let you get away with such terrible behaviour. You ought to know better, John."

Sherlock's dulcet tone was rich and dark like the finest Cabernet Sauvignon, pure velvet and desire incarnate. John's body trilled with the proximity of the man, came alive at the touch of Sherlock's hands wrapped proprietarily around his waist.

"You're a bit intimidating," John murmured, afraid that if he spoke any louder, the moment would be broken.

Sherlock smiled, a genuine, lopsided smile that made John's brain go offline, or what was left of it, anyway. The rest was an oozing, ugly mess at Sherlock's feet.

"So I've heard," Sherlock returned, pulling away and turning to a hallway further inside the flat. John's tunnel vision didn't allow for anything other than following the thin line of Sherlock's back as he threw open the door to what John could only guess was a bedroom.

"John," he heard from inside, prompting him to follow the same way.

Through the haze, John noticed that it was a neat bedroom with a large bed that looked like heaven to sleep on. Sherlock was trading his trousers for silk pyjama pants, and John just barely caught the swell of a buttocks before the top came to settle upon sculpted hipbones. Beneath the unbuttoned shirt was a white tee, so there was nothing to see, there. The thought nearly made John cry like a baby.

"Get in," Sherlock ordered, pointing to the large, empty bed.

John sighed and set about removing his shoes and clothes, clumsily tripping over his own feet. When he was down to his pants, he glanced up, intending on asking Sherlock if he might be joining him, but the other man's expression brought him up short.

Sherlock looked like a starving man being presented with the feast of his life. His grey eyes blazed, an inferno of wicked longing. By his sides, John could see his hands balled into tight fists, and John found himself curious as to how far he could push Sherlock before he showed John just what he could do.

John laid himself slowly on the bed, over the sheets like some virginal sacrifice to a hungry deity. Sherlock's eyes never wavered in their intensity, and John had to force himself not to squirm beneath the weight of that infinite stare.

Rather abruptly, the tenuous tether of their connection was snapped when Sherlock turned away, slamming the door behind him as he retreated to the main room.

_'Fuck,'_ John thought, peering down the length of his body. He was pressed hard and throbbing against his pants.

_'Fuck, I want him.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you all have been so amazing! Thank you so much for all the kudos, comments and bookmarks. Just so everyone is aware, I have started a tumblr page for my stories, where I will post update info and excerpts. If you think you might be interested, come follow me: http://lymphadei.tumblr.com/
> 
> Fact: The Watch House is a real pub in Lewisham, London, located on High Street. No, I've never been there, but I have done my research :)
> 
> Minor edits made: 2/27/16


	7. The First Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock share a heated encounter, and John must come to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter is 3/4 smut. Enjoy!

_'Jesus,'_ was John's first thought upon opening his eyes. Everything was encompassed in a thick darkness and the pounding in his head was nauseating. His tongue was thick with the flavour of stale ale, rancid breath and a terrible night's sleep.

Somewhere, John could hear a violin. Why the hell would Mike be blaring classical music this early into the morning, and since when had he done to begin with? And that ceiling, that wasn't his ceiling. This one was smooth and white, wherein John's own was lined with hairline cracks and old water stains.

Rubbing the gound from his eyes, John sat up, though the motion only increased the assault on his equilibrium. When everything was no longer fuzzy, John peered around the room, hoping he hadn't been drunkenly stumbling around London and wound up kidnapped by some mad person. It was bad enough he was having such trouble getting his eyes to adjust to the dark; his surroundings were shrouded in dusky shadows, unfamiliar, and he struggled against uncertain memories to dredge up some sort of explanation about his current whereabouts.

John's gaze drifted around the room, searching, until they stopped at the window, where everything suddenly became quite clear. Evidently, parts of his theory were not unfounded. John had, indeed, been kidnapped by a madman.

He remembered it now, calling Sherlock, and good Christ, the things he'd let pass his lips.

John collapsed back onto the mattress, throwing an arm over his face, disgusted and embarrassed. What could possibly make him think that it was a good idea to get drunk on a weeknight and call Sherlock, his _employer_?

_'This is a new level of stupidity, John, even for you, mate.'_

So, here were the facts: he was laying in _Sherlock's_ bed, nearly naked, with a bloody hangover, in _Sherlock's_ flat in Westminster. Fuck.

John turned his head and peaked at the clock.

Great, and it was 3:23. He was across town in a strange bed, and he had no clothes to change into for work. This was more than a new level of stupidity; it was carelessness. Hopefully, by the time he had this whole mess sorted and his groveling completed, John would still have a job to rush to.

On the nightstand, a cup of water and a paracetamol were placed close at hand, and John wasted no time downing the pill and throwing back the stagnant beverage. The water washed away the cottony texture in his mouth and the aftertaste of the ale, allowing John to breathe a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn't have to face Sherlock with dragon breath. On the night stand, also, was an unopened toothbrush and a face towel.

 _'Well, someone's done this before.'_ The instant that he thought it, John felt an inexplicable surge of jealousy that Sherlock had done this for someone else before. How many drunken men had he brought back to flat to sober up, allow them to sleep in his bed? It brought John back to his original purpose, which was to get up and go home. He'd imposed enough for one night.

Standing was an admirable feat, as John could still feel the lingering traces of the alcohol trying to take him down. He pushed through it and made his way to the door. The light from the hallway peeked in through the gap beneath the door, and John squared his shoulders, steadying himself for the inevitable encounter with Sherlock.

With the door open, the unmistakable sound of a violin was louder, clearer, and stopped almost as soon as John stepped foot outside the bedroom door.

"The loo is to your immediate right," Sherlock's voice rang out, loud in the abrupt silence of the flat.

John turned and opened the door just outside of the bedroom, to his right, as Sherlock indicated, and switched on the light. "Ehm, thanks," he croaked, before rushing in and closing the door behind him. With his back against it, he could hear the violin start up again, this time, taking a soft turn, almost like a rhythmic lullaby.

John peered at his reflection. He was a right mess. There were bags under his eyes, not ridiculously heavy, though he appeared tired and worn. His hair was a chaotic halo about his head, flattened on one side from the pillow. For having had such an awful night, John's dark blue eyes were disconcertingly clear and excited.

Excited?

And if John were being honest with himself, as much as he'd like to deny it, the thought of being alone with Sherlock in such a personal setting was tempting, and possibly the most dangerous situation he'd ever put himself in. Drunk, John had been vulnerable, and if given the right incentive, which he was sure wouldn't have been any trouble for Sherlock, he would have consented to anything the man asked of him. The way he'd stared at John right before flying out of the room... Jesus, he would do anything to see that look aimed at him again.

John shook those thoughts away and went about making himself as presentable as possible. He couldn't find a comb, so John used water and his fingers to tame his hair as much as possible. All too soon, he'd brushed his teeth and washed his face, made his hair look somewhat decent, and now stood with one hand on the doorknob, and the other against his abdomen, attempting to calm the legion of butterflies that had permanently taken up residence in his stomach.

With one more grounding breath, John pulled open the door and stepped out into the hall. The music didn't stop this time, not until he was well into the sitting room, standing awkwardly off to the side as Sherlock completed his piece.

Now that he was sober, everything he hadn't noticed about the flat upon arrival, was greedily taken in, along with a flood of new information about his employer.

Sherlock was very obviously a bachelor if he lived like this. There was nothing but papers and books, and odd knick-knacks cluttering up the room. It was chaotic and mysterious, and so much like his employer, that John couldn't stifle the giggle from moving past the barrier of his lips as he peered around.

Sherlock turned, bow down by his side, and clearly unamused. "What," he snapped, and it only made John laugh harder. When finally his amusement dwindled away, he stared up at the eccentric man.

"This flat is the embodiment of you,"John stated with a wry smile.

Sherlock grunted and turned back to the window, though John could see those pale eyes observing him through the reflection, intrigued. "How so?"

John strolled closer, casually folding his hands behind his back as he ventured into the man's space. "It's a bit chaotic in here, and nothing matches. I can't quite decide how to feel about the decor."

The hint of a smile pulled at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he turned to face John, bringing them chest to chest. "But you like it," he stated softly, without a doubt.

"Yeah," John shrugged, "it's different. I like different."

Sherlock watched him for another moment, before reaching out a hand to pull John forward. "You are exceptional," he rumbled, leaning down and placing his lips over John's.

It was unhurried and gentle, just a tentative meeting of lips as they tried to feel one another out. One of John's hand went to wrap around a narrow waist in reciprocation, while the other tangled up in the soft mass of curls. When his fingers rubbed against Sherlock's scalp, the man tensed and shivered lightly in John's hold.

John did it again, and Sherlock pressed forward, effortlessly deepening the kiss, until he'd effectively taken control of all John's senses, dominating; captivating. John had almost forgotten he'd only been wearing pants, until he felt those large hands at the small of his back, stroking down and over the curve of his arse. The sure touch left John gasping against Sherlock's warm mouth in uncontrolled desire.

John groaned, pushing his pelvis forward, and though he was too short to be groin-to-groin with Sherlock, the sensation of such intimate contact was nothing short of exquisite. A hardness was pressing obscenely against his belly, through the flimsy barrier of thin silk pyjama pants.

Sherlock pulled away before it could go any further, eyes half lidded and deep enough to drown in. He pulled John to a black, leather armchair and sat, bringing the smaller male to straddle his thighs with firm hands on either side of his hips.

John didn't waste time initiating the kiss as he slid forward on mile long thighs and pressed his groin against Sherlock's. The man moaned against his lips, a throaty, beautiful sound that made John want to work all the more harder to hear it. Sherlock's hands slid past the waistband, and beneath his pants, cupping his arse as John ground his hips down to meet the hardness beneath him.

John pulled away to breathe, groaning loudly into the otherwise stillness of the flat, and Sherlock used the moment to bring one hand up to fist his blonde strands, straining John's neck to bare, arched and blushed a deep, sinful red.

Supple lips drifted down John's Adams Apple, to the sweat gathering at his suprasternal notch, where a wet tongue dipped in greedily.

"Fuck," John cried softly, the pain of Sherlock's fingers tugging his hair and the sweetness of his tongue creating a sense of pandemonium, a clutter of mixed sensations shutting down his ability to think. John's body had never been so aware of another person, yet, his brain was fuzzy and scattered, an overloaded hard-drive.

A sharp nip to his clavicle, a bruising suck with tongue and sharp teeth. John's hips jerked forward of their own accord, and this time, Sherlock's thrust up to meet him. "Down," Sherlock ordered, and instinctively, John stopped squirming in the man's lap, compelled by the absolutely confident command in that rich, dark voice. "On your knees."

Christ, John would bet money that this man's vocal chords were constructed with pure honey and melted chocolate... Sherlock was looking at him now, and even with dilated pupils and elevated breathing, the man was as aware as usual, kaleidoscope eyes sharp and clear. John hesitated.

"I've never, I mean-," a sharp slap to his rear snapped John's mouth closed and he swallowed heavily, watching as Sherlock morphed from a lust-drunk inamorato to a man in complete control of his body.

"I said, _down_."

John scurried off Sherlock's lap and sank down to his knees between the 'V' of Sherlock's legs. The man was challenging him, he could see the spark of it in his ever-present gaze, and John was thrilled at the prospect.

Sherlock was quiet and assessing, piercing John with a wintry stare that made him feel bared and entirely vulnerable to whatever depraved act he was thinking of performing on his unsuspecting lover. "Look at you," Sherlock spoke, hushed and breathy, "I want to ruin you."

John could feel the front of his pants dampen, cold fabric settling against the head of his cock. He licked his lips and waited, eyes flicking between Sherlock's covered groin and that unwavering stare.

"Do it, take it out, John," Sherlock whispered, and John didn't know if this were heaven or hell, one minute he was on cloud nine, and the next, his body was burning with heat.

John leaned forward and brought his hands to the waistband of Sherlock's pyjama pants, fingering the skin there, nervously, before pulling. Sherlock lifted to accommodate him, and with a quick tug, Sherlock was bare to John's hungry gaze.

In the light, the foreskin was pushed back to reveal a glistening head. His erection was straining up towards his body in a graceful arch, the top, a rosewood pink that reflexively made John's mouth water.

John sat on his heels and waited, unsure if he should proceed, reluctant to embarrass himself. He'd never had his mouth on another man's cock, but Sherlock's eyes on him were surprisingly stabilizing.

He nodded, indicating that John should resume, eyes following the bob of John's Adam's apple with sharp, predatory acuteness. John leaned forward, resting his hand on Sherlock's thighs for leverage as he moved in for the first taste.

From above, Sherlock was staring intently, the muscles his thighs, bunched and tight. Those long, violinist fingers were curled where they sat on the arms of the chair, nails pressing dents into the leather.

"John," Sherlock prompted, "take what you want." His words were washed in sensuality, low, without a hint of reluctance or regret. Sherlock knew what he wanted, and he was offering it up on a silver platter.

John thought of the few women he'd engaged in oral intercourse, and what he liked to feel when his lover would fellate him, finding comfort in the fact that, at least, he had some reference to go by.

The first taste was nothing like he'd expected; the pre-come was bitter and salty, and the smell, poignant and thick from such close proximity. John licked the top with a curious tongue, using one hand to push the foreskin up to the base. Sherlock's cock was long, like the rest of his body, of average girth, and filled John's mouth with sweet succulency when he leaned forward to take more of him inside.

Above him, Sherlock shifted down further into his seat, head lolling forward the slightest bit, though the watchful gaze never wavered. The furrow between his brow grew deeper with each of John's attempts to swallow more of him, hunger thinly veiled behind vigilance and self-control.

John pulled off, forcing back a gag as he took more than he could handle, his chest heaving against Sherlock's inner thighs.

Gentle fingers carded through his hair, and John closed his eyes, leaning into the touch without hesitation. "Breathe, John," Sherlock enjoined, waiting until John's breathing evened out, before pulling him forward again.

Sherlock leaned forward, hunching over until he was nose to nose with John, darting forward for a near violent clash of lips. It didn't last long, and Sherlock was talking against his panting mouth the next moment.

"You're so obedient; I could do so much with you, to you. Would you let me, John? Allow me to sodomize you, push you down on your belly and fuck you?"

John groaned, bringing his left hand down to relieve the discomfort of his throbbing cock, but Sherlock moved swiftly, slapping it away before John could so much as stroke himself. "You don't touch yourself unless I give you the order to," he rumbled sternly, the hand in his hair pulling harshly against the roots.

John nodded in acceptance, willing to do anything to be able to come soon. Sherlock ordering him about, commanding, dominating, was the hottest thing John had ever done with a sexual partner.

"This is my cock, John," Sherlock growled roughly, his other hand reaching down to tug once, twice along his cock. "Say it."

John nearly whined when those hands stopped, resisting the urge to thrust his hips up. "Yes - yes, it's your cock, yours, Sherlock," he stammered, unable to think of anything other than coming all over those agile fingers.

Fuck, John felt hot all over, feverish, and Sherlock's hands on his body, stroking him, were the only thing he could get his mind to focus on. Nobody had ever taken such mastery over his body this way.

Sherlock was pushing his head down, and without a second thought, John was stroking the foreskin back with one hand and licking his way up the ridge of Sherlock's cock. It was way too much, and not quite enough. John had never felt this hungry, this eager to please someone in his life, and yet this man could order him to get on his knees and do something he'd never done before.

Sherlock's jaw was clenched tight, and the tendons in his neck stood out against blushing skin as his head fell back against the chair. He was beautiful, and John wanted to make Sherlock look like that all the time.

John placed his mouth around the head, flicking his tongue over the glans and around the corona. Sherlock was staring down at him under lowered eyelids, lips parted just barely. Sherlock looked so wrecked, and John wondered what picture he presented, on his knees, wild-eyed and on the brink of destruction.

John tightened his lips around the shaft, using his free hand to wrap round what he couldn't fit into his mouth. Everything in his peripheral was a fuzzy haze, just minor nuances that could be forgotten; it was just Sherlock and the fit of his fingers against the back of John's head, guiding his head forward.

Saliva dropped from his lips and down chin in thin, sluggish rivulets, causing his grasp on Sherlock's cock to become slick and wet. It all felt so beautifully illicit and brilliantly decadent, the taste of Sherlock so strong and heady on John's tongue.

Sherlock pulled him back by his hair, until John was leaning back on his haunches, lips a bright, swollen pink and shiny with saliva and pre-come.

A wide thumb came down to swipe across John's mouth, gathering the fluid, and he couldn't help but dart his tongue out for a small taste. Sherlock's eyes narrowed, gaze burning a path down the mess on John's chin, the blush down his collarbone, meandering down until they stopped at his covered cock, pressing insistently against his pants, and widened slightly.

Sherlock's tongue came out to swipe across his swollen lips, as he gracefully lowered himself from the seat, and onto his knees, mirroring John's position. Even kneeling, the man was at least a head taller, and he used his height to loom, bringing one hand around John's back to trail down his exposed spine.

It was gratifying to be touched, pulled into a long body that pressed so gorgeously against his own. There was something in John's chest, expanding until he felt fit to burst. Jesus, he'd been touched by lovers before, but never anything as potent as Sherlock's touch seemed to be.

Sherlock was breathing on his neck, his exhalations enviably steady. "I could keep you like this until dawn, dripping and hard... Would you like that, John, if I did that to you?"

It was so much, and John couldn't find the words to speak, but fuck, what would he say if he could? Sherlock could read his body better than even himself, and he was, using the data with skillful precision to taunt John with. Somehow he knew just what strings to play, what chords to hit in order to evoke the perfect reaction.

John shook his head, because, damn it, he wanted to come. He could feel the shift of skin as Sherlock smiled, and the wondering fingers dip beneath the band of his pants, so close to untouched territory.

"I could bind your hands behind you, put your ankles in a spreader bar so you can't close your legs," Sherlock purred, nosing his way up John's neck as his finger ghosted the perimeter of John's anus. "You wouldn't be able to do a thing once I've got you bound and open for me. I'd play with you until you begged me to fuck you, and even then, it would be at my discretion, you'd be at my complete mercy."

John was panting loudly into the room, squirming against those curious finger, desperate to rut and find release. It was a thrill like no other, being held at the edge, but unable to find relief. Sherlock was teasing him, seeing how far he could push John before he was driven to madness. His release was right there, so close that John could taste it. Everything else was static, besides the sound of Sherlock's voice and John's heartbeat ringing loudly in his own ears.

John was trembling with need. "Fuck, Sherlock, I need it... I want it, let me come." He was babbling, saying anything Sherlock wanted to hear so that the man would just let him have his orgasm.

Sherlock dangled it just out of reach, close, but untouchable.

Sherlock tsked lightly, feigning disappointment. "We don't have any lubrication, John."

"I don't care," John hissed, weak and wanting, against Sherlock's chest, "Jesus, please..."

Sherlock tipped John's chin up with a finger, until John was drowning in a nearly translucent gaze, bright and predatory. Once he had John's attention, Sherlock brought his hand up to cup his cheek. "You're going to have to get my hand wet, quickly now," he urged.

Keeping their eyes locked, John turned his head and dragged his tongue up the length of the hand against his cheek, a pool of warmth gathering deep in his belly at the way Sherlock's eyes followed the movement, darkening with every millisecond that passed. When it was sufficiently wet, Sherlock snatched his hand away, something feral overtaking his features as he plunged his hand beneath John's pants without preamble.

John couldn't fight the jerk of his hips into Sherlock's fist, as Sherlock's lips swallowed his cries, consuming him.

The pleasure of it all was overwhelming, and the wave in his chest was rising higher and higher as Sherlock's hands worked him over and over until John was teetering over the edge. "Sher-Sherlock, augh!"

Sherlock was breathing hard into his ear, a constant crescendo that joined John's until he was coming into that hot mouth. Sherlock was devouring it all like a starved man, moaning softly as John's come erupted over his hands.

When Sherlock released him, John sobbed into his chest as his vision wavered. The fuzzy haze began to coalesce until John couldn't see anything, but the silhouette of Sherlock hovering over him. Finally, John gave in and allowed the blissful dusk to carry him away.

 

\---

 

Somewhere far off, the sound of sirens cut through the silence, an unlikely wake-up call, but one nonetheless.

"...buggering hell," John grumbled, turning over and pulling the sheets over his head. God, when did his sheets get so comfortable, John wondered as he wiggled in toes and nuzzled down into his pillow. It smelled like drool, but that was fine, he'd just flip it over.

Somewhere on the street, a baby was crying, and there was far more noise than usual. What the bloody hell?

John threw off the sheets, scrambling for his mobile as he sat up. Where was the damn thing?

He stopped, looking around as he remembered exactly whose bed he was in and why.

_'Dear God, Watson, you have mucked this up entirely.'_

So it hadn't been a dream, then? John really had called Sherlock after drinking his sobriety away at The Watch House, and passed out in the man's bed. The smell of stale semen and his lack of clothes also told him that the second half of the night hadn't been an illusion, either.

John massaged soothing circles into his temples, fearing the migraine that may or may not form soon. At least he didn't feel nauseous. Reluctantly, John turned to peak at the clock on the night stand.

Oh dear God, he was so fucked.

It was nearing noon, and he was not at all where he should be. This was so far beyond not good.

John scrambled out the bed, flinching once his feet hit the cold wood. Luckily, there wasn't much vertigo, and he could walk on steady feet. Great, because John needed to find his clothes and his phone. Ugh, why didn't he just think sometimes!

There was no sign of his clothes on the bed or the floor, so with mounting irritability, John pulled the sheet off the bed and wrapped it around his shoulders before stepping out into the hallway.

All was silent in the flat without Sherlock's presence or his violin music. There was only the small creaks and groans of the old building to accompany the steady blare of horns on the street. John peered around, feeling out of place now that he was in Sherlock's home alone.

God, what had he done?

He'd spent half the night drunk, and the other half giving Sherlock a mediocre blowjob and receiving a mind-blowing hand job that sent him to space and back, apparently. As far as he knew, John had left Sherlock unfinished, and that thought alone was embarrassing, and he didn't think he ever wanted to show his face round the man ever again.

However much John hated himself at the moment, he couldn't deny that the night had been explosive, and if given the chance, he would probably do it again. That is, if the opportunity ever presented itself again, the chances of which were dwindling every minute John wasted thinking on it, instead of figuring out how to get to work.

However, there was one thing John knew for certain. There was no way he could turn down Sherlock's proposition.

If he hadn't ruined the chance to already, John was going to tell Sherlock yes, yes to whatever arrangement he wanted.

 

\---

 

Half an hour later, John was freshly showered and wrapped in a robe he'd found hanging up on the bathroom door. It was a bit long on his arms, but Sherlock's scent was heavy on it, and the silk was soft against his skin.

After a short search, there was still no sign of his clothes, and John was growing exasperated. He didn't know when Sherlock would be back, and when John found his mobile on the coffee table, there were no new messages for him.

The rattle of the door handle startled John out of his reverie, and before he could duck behind something, it opened to reveal a petite, elderly woman carrying a nearly folded stack of laundered clothes; his clothes.

"Oh, there you are," the woman exclaimed familiarly, walking towards him with the clothes held out. "I thought you might be needing these soon."

John could feel his face burning with the strength of his blush, as he graciously received the fresh scented fabric. "Ah, thank you," he stated lamely, unsure how to respond to the stranger currently standing with him while he wore nothing but a thin robe.

"You're quite welcome, dear. I wasn't sure when to bring it up. Sherlock has strict instructions not to wake you, but I figured you might be worried when you couldn't find your clothes, mind. I wanted to make one trip up, with my hip being the way it is and all, so if you'd like tea, you'll have to come down and join me."

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Hudson, thank you." John whipped around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway in a sharply pressed, form-fitting suit, a bag of food in one hand and the other holding the door open for the lady.

Mrs. Hudson tsked and made her way to the door, turning back as she reached the threshold. "It was a pleasure to meet you, young man," she said kindly to John, and then to Sherlock, "Be a gentleman and make your young man a nice, warm cup of tea." She lowers her voice to a stage whisper on the next words, and John could see a struggle of epic proportions on Sherlock's end not to roll his eyes. "He looks like he's had a rough time of it, what, with all the noise the night before. Remember, dear, these walls aren't as thick as you'd like to think. The volume on my telly can only go up so much, you see."

John turned away, running his hand over his face to stifle a groan. If the ground opened up then and there, he would have been happy to let it take him.

Sherlock sighed heavily, across the room, as the lady rambled on, before finally he cut in. "Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson. If that will be all, good afternoon," he grit out, closing the door on her just as she opened her mouth to reproach him.

John was not relieved when the woman left. That meant it was just Holmes and himself left to hash it out, and John wasn't quite sure what the man would do now that they were alone.

Sherlock walked to the centre of the sitting room and sat the bag of food on the coffee table, quiet, for all that his presence was the loudest thing in the flat.

Unable to put it off any longer, John turned to meet him, pulling the robe tighter round his body. "Sherlock, I'm-," was as far as John could get before Sherlock held a hand up, prematurely putting an end to what was meant to be a session in groveling.

It was hard to tell what the man was thinking when he worked so hard to display a neutral façade, and John didn't know whether he should be worried or happy that he didn't have to beg for forgiveness.

"Don't... bother apologizing, John, it will be boring to listen to, at any rate, but I feel I must make you aware that I do not, and will not, tolerate my employees publicly making fools of themselves in any aspect, most of all, one who works as closely with me as you do," Sherlock paused, and John used the time to study his feet, because he felt so thoroughly shamed in that moment, and it was terrible. "You work for me now, John, which means that anything you do could reflect poorly on my company, and it will not be condoned, are we clear?"

John nodded in understanding, avoiding Sherlock's gaze to the best of his abilities. He felt like a schoolboy that'd been caught out and embarrassingly dressed down. How was it that Sherlock could make him feel like some blushing, inexperienced prat?

"Good," Sherlock relented, satisfied for the time being, "now come and eat. I do have somewhat of a schedule to adhere to."

Right on cue, John's stomach emitted a hell of a rumble, effectively pouring salt in an already bleeding wound. It was just one thing after another, wasn't it?

Sherlock didn't touch the food, just sat back on the couch and crossed his legs, scowling down at his phone, while John took the seat beside him and tucked in. It was Pasta Bolognese, and in another untouched sack, a takeaway tray of risotto, still steaming and deliciously creamy. Thankfully, John's stomach had settled over the course of the morning. He'd been an idiot not to eat before drinking, but he was lucky enough to not have gotten sick from it.

With every movement of his arms, John hadn't noticed the robe slipping from his arms, but Sherlock certainly didn't miss it. The man was eye-fucking John to within an inch of his life, phone damn near forgotten in his hands.

Wait.

"Say, Sherlock, whose at the office?" That should have been the first thing he bothered to ask, seeing as he'd skipped work entirely, and Sherlock wasn't there, either.

Sherlock grunted, tearing his eyes away and back to his phone. "I always have stand-ins available, John. They're easy to find when there's a line of people waiting to work for you."

John chewed thoughtfully for a moment, turning Sherlock's words over in his head. It seemed a bit weird, then, that Sherlock would offer John a job that plenty of qualified people were knocking down his door for. "Well, what do you need me for, then? I mean, I've never had a job like this before. Wouldn't you want someone more... I don't know, proficient in that area?"

John swallowed, because now Sherlock was staring at him in that keen, observatory way that John understood was Sherlock crawling into his brain and picking out his thoughts.

"Do you think you're not worthy of the position, John?" It was a simple, yet loaded, question, and Sherlock's voice revealed nothing other than curiosity, but John knew that underneath, there was more to it, as if he were being screened.

John cleared his throat, thinking of an answer that wouldn't be misconstrued or turned about and thrown back in his face. It was hard when the person you were talking to was a master at word turning.

"Not necessarily, no," John muttered, because if he was being truly honest with himself, he has no idea what the fuck he was doing in that office, half the time.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at his candid response, though one side of his lips perked up in minor amusement. "Then what would you have me do with you," Sherlock inquired softly, raising one dark brow, exhibiting a serious demeanor, yet the tone of his voice hinted at the man being a bit facetious.

The question didn't necessarily catch him off guard, but John didn't know quite how to answer it. What would he have Sherlock do; fire him? John could use the money, but did he really deserve the job. Case in point: the activities of the night before, and the fact that not only did he not show up for work that day, but he was naked in a robe, sitting in his employer's flat having lunch.

"You need the money, I need the assistance. You find me interesting, and plan on accepting my proposal. I find you exceptional and would like to keep you around. You're not exactly skilled in the field, but you're willing to learn, you're loyal and discreet, and so far, have been wonderful at taking orders. Need I say more?"

'Exceptional.' John remembered Sherlock saying the same thing when they... rather, right before he kissed him, and every time, it never failed to redirect his blood flow.

"How could you possibly know I planned to accept your proposal," John asked. What clues had he given away? Was John's body language so telling?

Sherlock shot him a look that loudly proclaimed how idiotic of a question he thought that was. "Because you wouldn't be here, still, otherwise."

"I didn't have my clothes."

"I have plenty."

"I wasn't going to go through your things, Sherlock!"

"Clothes can easily be returned by post."

"Ugh," John exclaimed, running both hands through his hair in exasperation. "You would die to have the last word, wouldn't you?"

Sherlock shrugged, much too pleased with himself over his perceived success. "I'm simply providing you with logic," he replied, an irritating smirk taking near permanent residence on his lips.

John laughed once, shaking his head in frustration. "You really are incorrigible."

It was quiet for a moment, and Sherlock seems to be weighing his next words before he continued.

"I need you to tell me from your lips, that you're ready to know what I have in store for you."

John furrowed his brow and angled his body towards Sherlock, one leg folding over the other. He didn't miss the flicker of Sherlock's eyes to the exposed underside of his thighs. Fortunately, he was sitting too far up the couch for his bollocks to be exposed, but it didn't stop the sly little tilt of Sherlock's head to catch a glimpse.

John cleared his throat, successfully drawing Sherlock's attention back to his face. The man's eyes had darkened considerably in the short time he'd looked away. Now his gaze was a stormy chasm, endless and unrealistically piercing, unrelenting.

John was nervous. What could it be that it had to come with a forewarning? All this time, he'd known that Sherlock was preparing him for something, testing his worthiness, but now that the moment of truth was here, John wondered if he was, perhaps, a bit out of his depth.

After their early morning activities and what was happening now, John felt so torn between getting up and walking away, and lunging across the small space that separated them. John had never met a man that looked so hungry when their eyes fell on him. In every interaction they'd had, there was that constant, covetous beast lurking just beneath the exterior. Earlier had only been a taste, and John was curious what else that beautiful mask was hiding away.

Though his mind was screaming that this was the biggest mistake he might ever make, John closed the space between them, until his thighs were pressed against Sherlock's, who watched his progress with a measuring gaze.

The electricity was there when their eyes locked, consuming and magnetic, and John knew then what he'd known before.

"I'm ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are absolutely wonderful! Thank you much for all the comments and kudos! Last chapter got the most feedback since I've started this story, and it blew me away. It's incredibly motivating which is why I believe it was so easy and fun to write this chapter and have it out so quickly. Thank you all so much! For all of you who don't know, I do have a tumblr where I post updates about stories, excerpts, and just general Sherlock/Toplock shit. Come and see me: http://lymphadei.tumblr.com/


	8. The Blind Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gives John a taste of the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, most of this chapter is porn, sorry! It had to be done though, however, this story is centered around sex, so there will be a lot of it. If that's not your thing then you're reading the wrong story. Although this chapter is mostly sex, it is the catalyst for plotty things! So, I'm happy about that.
> 
> The songs referenced in this chapter by order:
> 
> -[Sonata No. 14 in C-Sharp Minor, "Moonlight": I. Adagio sostenuto by Ludwig van Beethoven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-pwPIRW9fY)  
> -Play by Goapele  
> -Take me to Church by Hozier

"I'm ready."

Nothing, absolutely nothing could describe the horrific free-fall of his heart diving straight into his gut, nor the fact that John could literally hear the blood racing in his veins. Metaphorically speaking, John was on fire.

It was gratifying to say those words he'd been fighting for days, weeks; God, how long had it been since Sherlock's offer was placed on the table between them?

It didn't matter, however, when all was said and done, because once John could see the smile slowly dawning across Sherlock's lips, all those nuances went out the window.

The smile was indulgent, but his eyes were bright and predatory, alert, as they skipped across John's face. Sherlock was transcribing his thoughts into written words, rendering his deepest emotions into tangible evidence that he could understand, and John found himself fascinated, but terrified.

"You're sure," Sherlock said, and John didn't bother to answer, knowing that it wasn't a question. "Perhaps, then, it will be better if I showed you."

Sherlock held out a hand to him, and John could do nothing but stare at it, something in the offer felt contractual. If he took that hand, John knew he would be making a deal with the devil. Was that what he wanted? A man like Sherlock could bring bliss or terror, so could John risk the latter for a taste of the former?

Sherlock's gaze was burning holes into his head, heavy with the fog of a million unknown variables that John couldn't be sure of. What was Sherlock thinking? Did John really want to know what went on behind that iridescent gaze, the inner workings of a madly brilliant mind consumed with want?

Sherlock seemed like a man partial to obsessions, the way he would focus so single-mindedly onto something, someone; the way he was staring at John now. The thought of all that attention on himself made John accept the hand in reluctant agreement.

Sherlock pulled him to a set of stairs that led to another door, no doubt locked up tightly to keep away unwanted guests.

Once they reached the top, Sherlock pulled a single key from his pocket, connected to a short, silver chain; a cautious insertion.

The only sound in John's ears was the erratic thump of his heart, the pull of his blood beneath his skin, and his own breathing, filling up the space between them. "Wait," he implored, placing a hand on the sleeve of Sherlock's suit jacket, which the man glanced down at before turning fully towards John, his face as unreadable as ever.

"Wait," John repeated, "you're not even going to give me any hints about what's in there?"

It was a terrible time to allow his nerves to get the better of him, but John was so far past nervous, the word didn't even begin to touch on the uneasy thing creeping slowly up his chest.

Sherlock smiled in a way that seemed more like dissimulation than reassurance. What was he thinking?

"Well that would ruin all the fun, wouldn't it?" Then he turned and pushed the door open. "This is where our game begins, John."

With bated breath, John moved forward to step beside Sherlock and glanced around, not quite sure exactly what he was looking at.

In the middle of the room, there was a large, four-poster canopy bed that nearly filled the space completely. It was stately and intimidating, and blatantly sensual. The frame was solid wood with a dark chestnut finish, engraved with swirling patterns of spiraling vines and thorny flowers, polished and embossed. It was beautiful and almost sinister, with the dark color of the indigo sheets, and the sheer black curtains tied to the posts.

From John's position at the threshold, he could see two metal rings built in to opposite sides of the headboard. Seeing it only raised his confusion and doubled the amount of dubious glances John was throwing Sherlock's way. The man didn't seem to mind, content to allow John the time to come to his own conclusions.

John took a few more steps inside, though there wasn't very much to look at. In the corner of the room, there was a large cupboard pushed against the wall, the same polished wood and embossed decor as the bed frame. There were no windows in this room, just a series of light settings that could be controlled by the switch near the door.

It was beautiful and grand, and yet so different from anything else John had seen of Sherlock's home, so with this in mind, John turned to him with a slough of questions burning on his tongue.

"When you say game, as in...?"

None of it was making sense. Surely he couldn't mean..."Wait, as in like where you have your PlayStation, Wii... X...box?" John trailed off with uncertainty, self-consciously pulling at the shoulder of Sherlock's robe, where it often slid down. He didn't see any of those things in the room. John looked around the room, sure that he missed seeing a telly set in there, somewhere, maybe some fancy, state-of-the-art, built in entertainment center.

John licked his lips and began again, eyebrows nearly to his hairline as he considered what he hadn't before. "I mean, I didn't take you for a video game kind of bloke, but now that I think of it, you probably beat Dark Souls, didn't you? Jesus, it literally took me months to beat that game, and by then, I was consisting solely on caffeine and Jammie Dodgers, if you can believe it." That was one of the sweetest moments of his life, the day he finished that game. Mike had been so worried about him, because he hadn't left the room much during that time.

John sighed with satisfaction. Good, now that he'd gotten that sorted, why exactly was Sherlock bringing John to his game room? He stopped and turned to Sherlock, who was regarding him with eyes narrowed in bemusement.

_'What?'_

John tore his eyes away and glanced around once more, attempting to see if there was something that he missed, and judging by the looks Sherlock was sending him, the man probably thought him two steps from mad.

As he passed the bed, John ran a hand across the sheets, the silk nestling between his fingers like liquid. He longed to lay upon it. The wood was smooth to the touch, perfectly even and probably worth more than the sum of all that he owned.

Finally, John stopped before the cupboard with the weight of Sherlock's keen gaze boring into his back.

_'I want to know your secrets, Sherlock Holmes.'_

"So, what did I miss- _oh_."

No sooner had John caught his breath, than he was losing it again.

_'Oh...'_

"Yes."

"Ooooh."

"Really, John, Dark Souls? I beat that game ages ago," Sherlock quipped, wrinkling his nose in disapproval.

"Of course you did."

"Of course."

"So, no video games?"

"Oh, for the love of- no, John, no video games."

God, but video games would have been so much simpler than this.

The cupboard was filled with things John could identify, items he could try and put names to, and some he wouldn't know what to do with if his life depended on it.

Inside, there were three shelves neatly stocked with an array instruments that John was sure at some point or another would be going in, around, or inside of him, if Sherlock had his way. John wasn't naïve, he'd done his research before, and had in fact, met a girl with decidedly unique tastes when it came to sex, but she'd only wanted to go as far as fuzzy cuffs and ball gags. Even that had been a little much for John at the time, but then again, that woman didn't have half the power over his body as Sherlock did.

On the middle shelf, between a stainless steel cock ring and a tube of lubrication, John could see a set of balls connected by a string, each one larger than the last. There were a few varieties of the beads, one John was worried to think that someone could fit up their arse without tearing anything.

Sherlock was behind him now, a small but smug smile lingering at the corner of his lips. John ignored him for the time being and continued him curious perusal.

On the top shelf, there was vast collection of dildos, vibrators, one of which that was sleek and made purely of gold (John was sure that one cost more than his life), and butt plugs. Everything had a modernistic feel to it, all sleek, curving lines and stainless steel. It was like a trophy case, but with sex toys.

Dangling from wooden pegs attached to the door, John could see just a plain, black riding crop and three different floggers, one, in particular, with a long, glass base and bull-hide tails. Cautiously, John reached out a hand and caressed the tips, feeling the heavy ribbons fall through his fingers, before moving on. The next flogger had a rounded, crystal base and suede tails that felt softer to the touch, as did the next, a simple leather flogger that eased John's worries, somewhat.

On the other door, there were paddles and spanking rods, unlike anything he'd seen during his quick look on a sex toy website at the time of his very brief rendezvous with Charlotte. Everything was varnished wood and sturdy oak, smooth to the touch and perfectly sanded. It was frightening, the thought of his bum beneath those things made his breath quicken in excitement. If Sherlock were to pull John over his knees and put one of those things to his body, John couldn't ensure that he would survive that encounter.

Slowly, he pushed the doors shut, and turned to see Sherlock looming over him, waiting to read his wary thoughts. It was so much, and yet, it all made sense. Sherlock was very much a controlling man with a dominant personality. From the way the man had taken him apart so thoroughly in the early hours, to his constant need to just know everything, it should have all been so obvious.

"You did see, but you didn't observe," Sherlock finished his thoughts, and it was so accurately descriptive of what John had indeed failed to do.

For the first time since knowing him, John could see that Sherlock was unsure underneath all that feigned passivity. He'd revealed his motives and made himself vulnerable. If John didn't agree, he would still know Sherlock's secret, and John supposed that could be the most unsettling thing of all for Sherlock.

"So...," John started, a pathetic prelude to what he was sure would be an excruciating discussion, "you want to use all of that," he motioned with a slight shoulder tilt to the cupboard, "on me?"

Sherlock smirked, regaining more of his usual confidence by the second. "Obvious."

"In this room?"

The smirk was swiftly replaced with annoyance. "That is the general idea, yes. John, when was the last time you had your hearing checked?"

John ignored the slight in lieu of casting his eyes around the room once more. It was a spacious room, if not for the gargantuan bed in the middle of it. John couldn't take his eyes off of it.

"You want to use those things on me, in _this_ room?" He wasn't even asking anymore, but rather, giving voice to his chaotic thoughts. All of it was a lot to take in. "And you want my consent, first?"

"That is an apt conclusion, yes." Sherlock stepped forward until he was the only thing John could see, placing his hands on the smaller man's shoulder to focus his attention. "I'm not in the business of non-consensual sex, John. I cannot possibly engage in this with you if you do not agree. I have to know that you are one hundred percent willing before we proceed with our... relationship."

One hundred percent willing to have things shoved up his arse, flogged, spanked, bitten, prodded, abused. Could John really say that he was one hundred percent willing to have those things done to him and come out perfectly alright?

It was a terrifying prospect. He didn't want to agree, and it turn out to be a completely disagreeable experience.

John cleared his throat at an abrupt idea, hoping that Sherlock would take him up on his offer.

"Sherlock, I'd feel much better if I knew what I was getting into. Perhaps," John stepped forward and into Sherlock's space, though kept his hands fastidiously by his sides, "you could..."

John let the sentence taper off, heavy in meaning and open to interpretation. Sherlock could go into details and logistics, but if the appraising eye he was observing John with was anything to go by, Sherlock had more than that in mind.

"All right," Sherlock agreed, and like a switch, something in his eyes changed, became darker. "Undress."

Sherlock was already stripping of his suit jacket with sure, measured movements, undoing the cuffs of his shirt once he'd sling his jacket over the lone chair in the corner of the room. Pale eyes narrowed intensely in John's direction, one brow lifting when he didn't immediately comply with Sherlock's order.

John shifted, clearly feeling uncomfortable and out of place as he watched Sherlock roll his sleeves up his arms. God, John was already half hard and the man hadn't so much as made a move towards him.

"Wait, I didn't mean right now. Don't you have a schedule to be following?"

Sherlock smiled, shark-like and hungry. "Well then, shall we begin?"

Oh, dear Jesus.

Now, John had never been one to play coy in his life, but there was no sensation more thrilling and terrifying than stripping down in front of Sherlock Holmes. If he thought the man had been intense the night before, John couldn't fathom the near flaying scrutiny Sherlock was regarding him with.

It felt like his first time undressing before anyone, as if he'd never been bared to this man, when just this morning, Sherlock was pulling him off with succulent words and a confident grip. John was not a shy man, but Sherlock made him feel vulnerable, and he wasn't sure rather he should enjoy or be cautious of it.

Underneath the robe, John was completely starkers, so a quick pull of the sash, and silk was pooling around his feet in a gentle puddle.

Was it sick of him to so desperately want to see that look of approval on Sherlock's face aimed at him all the time? It was intoxicating and liberating to stand there so naked, waiting for every unknown Sherlock had in store for John, and the anticipation sent radiating shivers down his spine.

Sherlock stepped closer to him, now, his impassive façade all but withered away, leaving behind an expression of true covetousness. John stared back from beneath his brow, waiting for Sherlock to move, anything, but those brilliant eyes were flitting over his body, down his chest, cataloging.

Sherlock circled him once, one hand dragging a searing trail round John's waist, over his hipbones, lower belly, until Sherlock was standing in his line of sight again.

The Sherlock Holmes that stood before him now looked every bit as powerful as a man of his station was privy to. His eyes were dark and fathomless, settled into an uncanny acuity that cut through John's every resistant thought. It certainly left no doubts as to who was in control.

Sherlock took a step away. "On the bed," he commanded, his deep voice plunging through John's body like volts of electricity, powering his legs to move as instructed. "Lie on your back."

The silk sheets caressed his skin, a thousand gentle fingers stroking his body as he pushed back on the bed until he was at the head of it. The bed really was very large, with room enough to fit five adult males. Who, other than His majesty, apparently, needed a bed this big?

Sherlock sauntered to the cupboard, relaxed and unhurried, much to John's disquietude, and scanned the items with a scrupulous eye.

John found his own gaze roving down the line of Sherlock's back, over that tight, black shirt that hugged his torso and accentuated a cinched waist where it tucked in at the waistband.

John was so engrossed in drinking in everything he could of Sherlock, that he hadn't noticed what the man was extracting from the cupboard. When he turned, he was clutching a strip of black cloth and a few coils of rope in his left hand, and a pair of earplugs in the right.

When Sherlock spoke it was with that disconcerting baritone, a sinuous timbre that was nothing short of exacting. "From this point forward you will not speak unless I give you permission to, and you will do exactly as I say, to the letter." His voice ripped through John like a current, and there was no way he could offer up an argument, though it spoke volumes that John was far from tempted to do so. "The only time I give you permission to speak freely is when you want me to stop. Don't be foolish and stay quiet if you feel overwhelmed. Of course, this is in the highly unlikely scenario that I won't have deduced it in my own."

As Sherlock spoke, he connected the earplugs to his phone and tapped a few buttons before sitting it on the bed next to John.

"We will begin with Sensory Deprivation. You won't be able to see, hear, nor move once we begin. Do you have any objections to being tied up?"

John shook his head, stomach plummeting with anxiety and suspense. God, he was so ready.

"Good," Sherlock stated brusquely, running one gentle hand up John's legs and over his thighs, a soft, comforting motion that immediately soaked the tension from John's muscles. "Lift your head for me and close your eyes."

John did as he was told, closing his eyes as he waited for the inevitable caress of silk to render him temporarily blind. A moment later, and he wasn't disappointed as Sherlock tied the blindfold off snugly, but comfortably at the back of his head.

Without his sight, John was left with the sound of swishing fabric and the air settling around his body, heavy with the new level of intimacy between Sherlock and himself. John couldn't see Sherlock, but his gaze was a physical presence of its own, like a hot touch against his skin. Knowing that Sherlock was just watching him, even if John had no way to confirm, made him fidgety.

Sherlock pulled John's arms carefully over John's head, wrapping the first coil of rope around his wrist in several revolutions, until they were bound tightly together. Sherlock finished with a quick, "Pull," to which John did, feeling only a slight give from where the length of rope connected to the bed in some indeterminable way. The rope was loose enough that there wasn't much strain on John's shoulders, it was tight enough that he couldn't move too much.

John nodded, swallowing against a tide of uncertainty and suspense as svelte hands trailed tingles over his ribs and below. At his thighs, the fingers skirted around until they pressed against the back of his knees, urging them up into suspension. The second coil of rope circled his thigh, spiraling down until they were knotted at his knees and tied to some part of the bed post. The same motions were repeated with the other, until he lay vulnerable and exposed, legs in the air, and every hidden crevice of his body open for perusal.

"You're doing very well, John," Sherlock stated, voice rougher than usual, aroused. Benevolent fingers carded through his hair at the uttered praise, and John could feel the unease seep from the lines of his body, along with Sherlock as he pulled away. "I've one more request." A pause. "While you are not allowed to speak, I would also advise you not to muffle any noise you may want to make. I want to hear it all." The words were breathy and filled with so much meaning, the implications sent shards of want stabbing through John's gut.

Finally, the earplugs were carefully placed in John's ear, and shortly after, the gentle chords of a piano playing an evocative sonata was all he could hear. With his sight and sound impeded, the anticipation of the moment was heightened, the thrill of not knowing what Sherlock would do to him next.

The air was cool against John's nude body, a constant reminder that he was in a highly vulnerable position, under Sherlock's complete control.

For several minutes, John waited to feel something, tensed for a touch, unsure where it would land or the sensation that would follow. Sherlock kept John that way for an indeterminate amount of time, balanced on a precipice, anxious and more aware than he'd ever been of anything.

The first touch, when it came, was so light, a whisper of a caress near the sole of his left foot. John would have disregarded it as a tingle in his skin, if not for the light brush along his instep and down, over the curve of John's heel.

The unknown object traversed over John's Achilles heel, careful not to reveal itself with harder presses. With one more fleeting stoke, it was gone.

Leather. The silky drag along his lower belly was definitely something with a flat, leather tip or a very good imitation of it, just lightly skimming the surface. Every hair on John's body stood up to meet it, unnaturally attuned to Sherlock's presence. His toes curled with pleasure as the instrument left his stomach, only to brush a gentle kiss over his cheek, meandering south over his neck and further.

It was a sweet torment, this vow of silence, unable to tell Sherlock what he wanted, what John wanted the man to do with him. John could loose himself under Sherlock's meticulous touch, wanted to, but something in the thought of completely surrendering left John startled and breathless.

He feared Sherlock to be the type of man that would take what he wanted and toss the remains aside. John didn't know if he could stomach such a rejection. Sex... sex was simple, and if that was all they had with one another, then John saw no reason to deny them both this basic pleasure.

With every minute of their sensual play, John was falling deeper into Sherlock's spell, unable to resist how his body attempted to follow whenever the touch went away.

Sherlock's fingers, when they finally landed on his skin, were cool and teasing as they skirted up his displayed inner thighs, followed by a trail of nips. After each, John would gasp and press up, needing more of those nimble hands and confident lips.

There was a tickle up his calf, and John jerked violently in his restraints. Sherlock was everywhere around him, all at once, though, all but avoiding the places John really wanted him to touch. A fingernail tracing figure eights on his ribs; John giggled, then swiftly cut off as he remembered Sherlock's demand.

John bit his lip as a sharp pinch was issued to the nub of his nipple in punishment.

 _'Please,'_ he longed to urge the man forward. His cock was thickening with the rush of blood, untouched, and starving for attention.

At last, the sonata faded away, as did the sensation of wondering fingers.

In a seemingly random turn, the atmosphere in the room changed, as did the music, an unpredictable choice where Sherlock was concerned. The air between them crackled with something more charged and primitive. A low, rhythmic bass filtered through the plugs, as did the clear, seductive pitch of a woman crooning softly over the beat.

Instead of fingers, Sherlock's hands were a solid touch over his pectorals, a possessive claim on every inch of John's skin that he could reach. The drag of lips down his sternum was unexpected, just a hint of moistness following in their wake.

John hadn't meant to react so violently, but his body was over-sensitized from Sherlock's ceaseless teasing. His body bucked up, searching for relief, but much to John's consternation, Sherlock pulled away.

 _"I'm ready to play,"_ the woman sang with a breathy cadence that thrummed through John's blood.

Sherlock was back again, though his touches were steadily growing bolder. John knew he was sweating under the onslaught, but he couldn't be arsed to care when he felt the heat of that solid body settle between his splayed legs.

A wet line was being drawn up his lower abdomen, pausing to dip hotly into John's belly button. He groaned, but the sound was lost to the music, though the nip to John's hipbone let him know that the message was well received.

 _"We can play this game all day,"_ the woman purred, and John was reminded of the unaccounted for time he'd spent being taken apart under Sherlock's skilled hands. God, John would willingly give away everything just to see if Sherlock was just as wrecked as John felt. Though, he couldn't imagine Sherlock being anything other than cool and collected, the image of him sweaty and bothered stayed lodged in John's mind.

With no warning, a sudden all-encompassing warmth had descended over his erection, slick and tight. Fuck, there was no mistaking those lips as they wrapped round him in one fell swoop.

John's attempt to thrust up was aborted by a firm grip on his hips from Sherlock's free hand, holding him down.

 _'Please,'_ John wanted to cry out, but the frantic moan conveyed his plea well enough. He needed more.

The other hand had bypassed his swollen scrotum and now teased the skin of John's perineum, with light, tantalizing presses.

Sherlock swallowed around John's erection, the head hitting the back of his throat drew full-bodied shivers from John's body. It was altogether too much and not nearly enough, but the finger circling his anus said that if only John had patience, something else would come soon enough.

The song changed again, this time, a man, beginning with the dark, ominous repetition of piano chords. It was beautiful, yet a bit macabre in tastes, but a perfect soundtrack to the near reverent stroke of Sherlock's tongue over his cock.

Sherlock pulled away for what was hopefully the last time, until the cool air was falling uncomfortable over his spit slicked genitals.

When he returned, Sherlock's fingers were slick against his anus, prodding gently as his tongue laved the crease where thigh met groin, followed by a sharp nip that made John's chest heave with trapped air.

_"I was born sick, but I love it..."_

Then, the tip of a finger was pressing inside, and John was breathing deep against the odd sensation. It was a feeling unlike anything he'd felt before; not unpleasant, yet the breach of Sherlock's digit in his arse would take some getting used to.

Sherlock's body over John's was warm and comforting as he adjusted, and Sherlock was a master at distraction, moving up his body with serpentine grace and taking John's lips captive in a fiery kiss.

Sherlock was knuckle deep inside of him, loosening his arse for inevitable penetration, until it pressed into his prostate with unerring accuracy.

John had read about prostate play, but never ventured into such unfamiliar territory before. Would he have known that it would send pulses of ecstasy shooting through his body, make his toes curl and his cock unbearably hard?

Sherlock swallowed every sound that left his lips, intemperate greed giving control and patience a backseat.

Sherlock added another finger, gently, so as not to overwhelm John, though it was a pointless endeavour. He had already become undone.

John's hands were pulling uselessly at his restraints, just to get a little taste of that flesh; he wanted to touch, but Sherlock was relentless in his assault. John could imagine himself in the position he was in, Sherlock's body between his hitched up thighs, the very picture of hedonism. Bright cheeks and silk-covered eyes, Sherlock's warm lips tracing patterns down the line of his stomach.

Sherlock brought him closer to the summit, balancing John on a knife's edge until he was sure Sherlock would allow him to tip over, only to cruelly bring him back.

Three fingers in and John was a mess. Sherlock was kneeling between his legs, lazily stroking John's straining erection with one hand, up to his knuckles in John's arse with the other. He was ready, he wanted to tell Sherlock, ready to feel him moving inside.

When the song ended, nothing else followed, just their breathing, loud and ragged, filling the room.

Sherlock moved, and the sound of something tearing gave him pause.

John knew what was coming next, yet he still found himself startled by the feeling of a blunt head pressed against his opening.

"Relax," Sherlock's voice rang out loud in the room, though a welcome sound after not being able to hear it for some time. A large hand came to rest on the skin beneath his left knee, running over the ropes, before settling, while the other carefully guided his erection into John's body.

John squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, forcing his muscles to relax. He'd never given himself like this to anyone, but John was sure that staying tense wouldn't make this experience enjoyable.

"Very good, John," Sherlock praised, his tone rough and ragged as he began to move with gentle, unhurried thrusts, allowing John's body time to acclimate to the breach. "You've exceeded all of my expectations." Sherlock whispered his acclaim in John's ears, carding a hand through the fine hairs on John's nape.

"You will never understand how badly I want to keep you this way, John," Sherlock gasped, and John answered in long, low moan, feeling the head of Sherlock's cock nudge his prostate.

When John's muscles relaxed fully, Sherlock began to thrust in earnest, repeatedly hitting that spot that made his insides crumble like dust. It was much too intense, and John just wanted to reach that pinnacle and take a plunge.

Fuck, but Sherlock was playing him just as skillfully as his violin, rolling his hips in titillating circles, slowly. John longed to wrap his legs around Sherlock's waist and press his heels on that round derriere, urge him forward.

John pressed down, desperate to feel more, for Sherlock to go deeper, but the man was being overly cautious. John clenched the muscles of his arse, satisfied when Sherlock grunted and sped up.

Yes, this was what he needed.

Sherlock pressed impossibly closer, his hips snapping against John's with an obscene squelch. It was gloriously filthy, and John craved for more of it, wanted to feel the blood racing through his veins and Sherlock's heart beating just as erratically in his chest.

Sherlock began to fuck him faster, until John's back was aching with the strain of his arch, and his shoulders began to twinge from pulling on the rope. Sherlock was panting in his ear and John was smashing his face against those beautiful cheekbones, the taste of sweat on his tongue.

It was beautiful and not at all what John envisioned his first time with a man would be like, but more than satisfied.

_'God, Sherlock Holmes, what have you done to me?'_

John thought that accepting Sherlock's proposal would mean a lengthy, detailed discussion of boundaries, wherein, his employer turned lover would lay out rules for whatever it was they were headed towards. John hadn't expected to get his way, but this was beyond all of those trivialities.

John never thought he'd spend the last hour breathless and wondering if this was the best orgasm he would ever have in his life, spread and bound in Sherlock's flat, boneless and falling hard every second of it.

John's thighs... God, his thighs were deliciously burning with the amount of time they'd been tied up and spread open.

He lay open like a banquet under Sherlock's hungry eyes, decades past coherency. The blindfold over John's eyes was moist with sweat and cool against his heated skin.

John had never felt so hyper aware of his body, all of his erogenous zones, the spot on his neck that warmed his blood when nuzzled, the skin of John's inner thighs between Sherlock's skilled lips.

The music had faded out seconds, minutes, hours ago, and all that was left was the cacophony of his breath, along with Sherlock's, mingling as they climbed towards the ultimate climax.

Suddenly, the blindfold was pulled away, and the only thing John could focus on were those electric eyes, spearing him, and that glorious body moving within his own.

The earplugs were taken out and flung to some darkened corner of the room, and two large hands cradled John's reddened cheeks with a firm, but careful grip.

"Tell me," Sherlock ordered, the words close enough to John's lips to taste, whispered with a fervency from the oft collected man. The roll of his hips were long and languid, a slow, wondrous dance that kept John right at the threshold, trapped between ecstasy and torment.

John gasped as his prostate was prodded, unable to move and thrust himself down like he wanted to. "Tell you what?" He was pleasantly surprised at the steadiness in his reply, and John couldn't help but notice how grounded he felt in this situation, with no control to speak of and at Sherlock's mercy.

"Tell me I'm mad and that this isn't what you want," Sherlock said, stilling his motions, so that he could gaze down at John beneath him. One hand was resting on the underside of John's thigh, needlessly holding it there, as if Sherlock were convinced that John would try to struggle away. The rope made this impossible, but John wondered if the touch was more for Sherlock's reassurance than anything.

John shook his head, allowing it to fall back on a feather down pillow, as it eased the stress on his arms when he relaxed fully. "You are mad if you think I don't. Now shut up and fuck me, _please_."

One hand released John's cheek and gripped the nape of his neck, Sherlock's thumb pressing into the dip behind his ear as he sped up his thrusts. The sound of wet flesh repeatedly colliding only made John harder, a dreadful reaction that only furthered his need to come.

A correcting nip to his jaw, and Sherlock was slowing down again, swooping down to catch the cry on John's lips in a searing kiss, before pulling away. "You are going to be _so_ enjoyable. I can imagine all of the things I'd rather be doing with that mouth than hear you talk, however. You can be so crude at times." John shivered at those breathy words, also fantasizing of the things he'd like to do to Sherlock. A soft kiss on his cheek, a gentle thrust, and that deep baritone was murmuring seductive words against his ear. "I would tell you I'm no good for you, but I assume you've already come to this conclusion."

And he had. From the moment Sherlock Holmes opened his mouth and uttered a word, John knew he was heading for a head-on collision with destruction. Here he was, minutes away from euphoria, and all the danger of the moment did nothing but propel his sex drive into warp speed, because damn it all, if Holmes was going to be the death of him, John would gladly accept that fate.

Yes, Sherlock was definitely no good for him, but John always did find himself attracted to danger.

John couldn't tear his eyes away, and Sherlock was staring at him like he would disappear at any moment. His thrusts were growing inconsistent as he lost control, pistoning his hips into John's savagely.

Finally, Sherlock was hitting his prostate with purpose, ready to hurl John over the edge along with him.

John was moaning loudly, freely, into the room until his voice was hoarse and worn. Above him, Sherlock was grunting, eyes squeezing shut as he came violently. The sight of it pushed John to the brink, and he cried out one last time as the orgasm he'd been dying for finally crashed through him with tremendous force.

For the second time that day, John allowed the darkness to carry him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT: The video game mentioned in this chapter, Dark Souls, is supposedly one of the hardest games to beat, so I thought I'd throw that in there lol. IMO, I had to use that scene, because to me, it was one of the best exchanges in the book.
> 
> Also, I chose Sensory Deprivation, which was also in the book, because I felt that some level of trust needed to be established during the first scene, before any of the hardcore stuff. It's pretty tame in comparison to what Sherlock could have done to John in such a vulnerable state.  
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com/) for story updates and Sherlock-y things (*whispers* specifically Toplock!)


	9. The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes he might be falling for Sherlock.

John found himself thanking whatever powers that be, that Mike wasn't home when he finally returned to the flat. His thighs were sore from the unexpected workout and he was sure he smelled like sex and expensive aftershave.

After having passed out from sheer exhaustion and the overwhelming sensations of having Sherlock Holmes fuck him into oblivion, he'd woken up to an empty flat and nearly a  
dozen text messages from Mike and Sarah. Dear God, and one missed called from his parents.

The text were swiftly replied to, but the call would have to wait. As much as John loved his parents, a long, drawn out conversation about his future was not something he looked forward to after a night of fornication.

Fortunately, the lady from before was nowhere to be found, and his clothes were neatly folded on the couch, where he'd left them. Without Sherlock to distract him, the flat seemed oddly quiet, though comfortable, and John couldn't deny that he felt the least bit reluctant to leave. Already, John felt he'd overstayed his welcome, so he beat a hasty retreat and hailed a cab to take himself home.

Once home, John slid out of his clothes and took a shower, desperate to clear his mind. It worried him that he had yet to feel any guilt or regret after sleeping with Sherlock. It was freeing, in a way, to be without compunction, because if John was being honest with himself, the urge to be with Sherlock was even stronger than before. 

How had he not guessed that Sherlock's secret kink would involve whips and chains, and every illicit thing John could think of. The man was a complete control freak, so why wouldn't he want to dominate in bed, as well? 

It was a completely alluring facet of Sherlock that John found himself unwittingly fascinated with, and abundantly curious. Sherlock had only offered a taste of what was to come, but once he accepted, what new doors would John be opening?

It was frightening, to say the least, that mere hours ago, John was tied up and teased endlessly, yet it felt like days. Though his body was aching, John had never felt so insatiable. 

The water was warm on his tender skin, gentle over rope marks around his wrists, the bruises on his inner thighs from Sherlock's over-zealous tongue and teeth. Looking at them made his stomach clench in anticipation. 

In the mirror, John's cheeks were ripe and dark from the rush of blood, and his lips, swollen and red. John didn't often think of himself as attractive, but he could imagine what a lover would see, peering down at him from above. The heat in his gaze, spit-slicked lips, and tousled blond hair; did Sherlock take pride in knowing that he could make John lose his composure, break him down until he owned every molecule of John's body.

Fuck, just thinking of it was making him hard.

Turning away from his reflection, John threw the towel around his waist and returned to his room. After changing into some sweats, he threw himself down on the bed, feeling oddly bereft. 

Why didn't he feel any different about Sherlock now that he knew what the man really wanted from him. Not only did Sherlock intend to take John to bed regularly, he wanted John to be his submissive, to surrender and trust him. 

John wasn't an idiot, he knew that trusting Sherlock wouldn't be easy, and yet somehow, he found himself submitting to Sherlock's whim almost without a second thought. The scary part of that revelation was that he still hadn't felt even an ounce of remorse over his inability to control his bodily urges whenever Sherlock was around.

A beep from his phone pulled John from his idle thoughts. He ignored the zing of excitement that zipped through him once he saw the name lit up on the screen.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**You were much sweeter than I anticipated. Since I've left you in my bed, I've thought of a thousand different ways I would like to make you scream for me.  
SH**

Christ, just thinking of Sherlock texting this while in his office, possibly some boring meeting, surrounded by people, yet thinking of John, made his skin heat up. John's flesh tingled with renewed fervour.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**I guess it's too bad I'm not in your bed anymore**

John snickered at his text. Coy didn't suit him, there was no part of him that was shy or even keen on teasing, but with Sherlock, it felt like foreplay. The build up was phenomenal, knowing that in the end, Sherlock would most likely own up to everything he threatened to do. What would it hurt if John riled him up a little?

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Where are you?  
SH**

John snorted, wondering if he should enable Sherlock's need to know everything that was going on at all times. It wasn't always attractive, and John knew that sooner or later, the novelty of it might wear off. 

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**You do realize I have a flat?**

Then, a minute later:

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Of course.  
SH**

John sighed and placed his phone on the night stand, sensing an abrupt end to the conversation. He was so tired, though he'd slept most of the day. John hadn't had a workout like the one Sherlock had given him in years. Friday, Janine would be working, so John closed his eyes, relishing in the knowledge that he could wake up, relax and watch some crap telly for the night without the threat of oversleeping hanging over his head.

\---

When John woke again, the room was dark and his skin was wet with perspiration. His mind swam with the images of that afternoon, the toys, the music, and most of all, the sex. John could feel phantom fingers trailing down his spine, the cleft of his arse. 

He stretched languorously atop his sheets, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he snuggled down into his pillow. John could stay in bed for the rest of the nigh-

A loud grumble cut through John's thoughts, along with the uncomfortable pang of his empty stomach. 

_Or not._

The flat was dark and quiet when he emerged from his room, feeling rested and his muscles, deliciously taut. Though he didn't have a view of the living room, John could hear the television playing softly, probably switched on and then forgotten.

The kitchen still smelled of Mike's last meal, toasted bread and marmite, though John didn't know how his friend could stomach the foul stuff. It left an uneasy stench as well as a bad taste in the mouth, and John was tempted to throw away the spread, just to have it out of the kitchen.

The room was dim, but John had just enough light to make a ham sandwich without having to torture his retinas with harsh fluorescents. For once, it felt nice to have the house to himself. His shirt was left back in the room, and John didn't feel like having to explain why he had bite marks on his collar bone. 

John had intended on taking his dinner in front of the telly, and turning on the most mind-numbing show he could find, if not for the sleek, silhouetted shape sitting cross-legged on the couch. 

Seeing those sharp, angular features highlighted even more so under the soft glow of the telly, nearly gave John a conniption. Before he could even register his visitor, let alone, allow the surprise to sink in, John had flung the sandwich away in lieu of yielding the ceramic plate like a hatchet.

"Jesus Christ on a sodding cracker! Sherlock Holmes, you utter wanker, what the hell are you doing?!" John could feel his chest heaving in anger and adrenaline, nearly startled out of his mind as the prick just raised an eyebrow in vague amusement.

"Your vocabulary truly is atrocious, John, you need better influences," Sherlock sniffed, standing up and straightening out his suit jacket haughtily. "And this flat is frankly quite frightening." John couldn't disagree with that. Sherlock seemed larger than life in the tiny flat, like an expensive trinket amid cheap jewels. John lowered the plate with an annoyed huff, avoiding looking at Sherlock's brogues, which he was certain ran for several hundred quid, dark and polished against his tea-stained carpet.

"Oh, _I'm_ sorry for being a broke Uni student, I hope all this," John snarked, twirling a finger around to indicate their surroundings, "hasn't offended your delicate sensibilities. Sorry, Sherlock, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place if you wanted a taste of the finer things."

Sherlock smiled fondly, clearly enjoying the sass, just as much as the view, as his eyes slid leisurely down John's chest, and then up, until their eyes met again. John couldn't help the little thrill of desire as he recognized the beast that lurked just underneath Sherlock's skin. He was hungry, and sod the sandwich, John was too. "I'll have to disagree with you on this, John. I believe I've found exactly what I was looking for."

John looked away, before the lust consumed him, fidgeting beneath Sherlock's relentless gaze. He crouched down to retrieve the ruined sandwich from the floor, throwing it on the plate as he spoke. "How did you get in here anyway? Last I checked, housebreaking was illegal."

"Don't be ridiculous, John. This is hardly London Tower." Sherlock scoffed, following him into the kitchen at a slower pace as his eyes swung curiously around the room. "Took you long enough to wake up. I got tired of watching reruns of Downton Abbey." 

This time, it was John who turned and cast a curious eye on Sherlock, to which the other man only shrugged. "Bored," he explained, simply.

John turned back to the fridge to hide his smile, shaking his head as he retrieved all the fixings to make a new sandwich. "How long have you been here?"

"An hour too long," Sherlock replied, coming to lean against the counter next to John, watching him put together his meal with a dubious gaze. "You should let me take you to dinner."

John paused, not quite sure what to make of Sherlock's request. The idea of Sherlock treating him, spending money on John, didn't feel right. It felt too much like being paid for the sex, and too little like what John actually wanted it to be: a date.

John shook his head and slapped the meat down on the bread, before bracing his hands against the counter and looking up at Sherlock. "Why are you doing all this," John asked, tilting his head as he regarded the taller man with a tiny, confused smile. "Giving me a job, taking me back to your flat after getting plastered, taking me out? Besides the sex, what could possibly be in it for you?" 

The thought that he could be just another conquest for Sherlock was what ate at John. Although he loved being the focus of Sherlock's attention, felt ingratiated by it, John couldn't help but wonder why. Though they had only had penetrative sex once, just the memory of it left him with chills, and he wondered if it was the same for Sherlock. John couldn't stop thinking of what it felt like to have someone inside of him.

For a while, Sherlock didn't answer, though his gaze stayed steadily locked with John's, a silent clash of wills to see who would give in first. It seemed like miles between them, though they were barely a foot apart. John wanted to close it, press Sherlock up against the counter and kiss his smug face. 

"Though I can admit to not being a very patient man, it can be very," Sherlock stepped forward, until he was pressed against John's side, his voice a deep, rumbling vibration against John's skin, "rewarding. I can take you out and treat you with fine things, dress you with anything you'd like, knowing that at the end of the day, I will be taking it off of you, piece by piece." 

John turned, so that he was chest to chest with Sherlock, a heavy erection pressing into the bare skin of his lower belly. "It's dangerous, the knowledge that if you accept, you will be mine, and I can do what I like with you. I can fuck you anywhere," here Sherlock pressed John back against the counter, pushing his hips forward so that they sat firmly between John's legs, "at any time." 

Silence, and then, breath on his ear. "And I know how you _love_ danger, John."

 _'Oh, fuck you, Sherlock Holmes.'_

John pushed forward violently, crushing his mouth against Sherlock's until he felt the skin give beneath his teeth. God, it tasted like heaven, the metallic tang of Sherlock's blood on his tongue. Sherlock gave just as good as he got, shoving back with enough force to bruise. 

John didn't know who was moaning, but it was loud and wet, God, and he was so hot. Sherlock's hands had dipped below his waistband, and hitched John up by his arse until all that kept him up were his legs locked around Sherlock's waist, and the plastic laminate behind him. 

_'Turnabout is fair play,'_ John thought wickedly, thinking of copious amounts of hair pulling the night before, as he grabbed two handfuls of Sherlock's hair and tugged, until he had the advantage, pushing his tongue between Sherlock's teeth. The man moaned violently, clutching John closer, but only to turn and drop him unceremoniously onto the rickety table.

John stopped, feeling the table wobble beneath him, and stared cautiously up at Sherlock. Ebony curls stood up in a mess of chaotic tangles, and Sherlock's eyes were bright and feverish as his deft fingers worked to unlatch his belt. "Um, I don't think the table is-,"

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped, throwing the belt down on the table and moving to undo his zip. "Or better yet, keep talking, because you won't be able to say a word once I'm through with you," he growled. 

John didn't need any more incentive than that. He was already shirtless, so all he needed to do was shuck his jeans.

Good God, but why was Sherlock kneeling on the floor? 

The man impatiently slapped John's hands out of the way, and gripped the waistband of John's sweats and pants, relieving John of both in one fierce tug.

"Fuck, yes," John groaned, and Sherlock's eyes flickered up at him, just a sliver of his pale irises were visible around his enlarged pupils. 

Strong hands yanked John forward until his lower back balanced at the edge of the table, and the already overworked muscles in his thighs stretched even further as Sherlock bent John's legs back.

What in the hell was he doing?

The answer came in the form of a long wet tongue sliding up the cleft of his arse, and up until a perfectly pointed nose nudged John's scrotum. 

The scene itself was amazingly erotic, John could have gotten off to it, alone. Sherlock, his pristine suit jacket, now thrown into a corner somewhere, and his tight shirt haphazardly unbuttoned from John's attack. John could see Sherlock's cock peeking through his trousers as he sat up on his elbows to watch. Sherlock's free hand, the one not stroking John's erection, had meandered slowly to his own, massaging the skin in unhurried, languid strokes. 

With his eyes still locked on John, Sherlock released John's cock and pushed his leg aside so that John had an unhindered view of that sinful tongue slipping lower and lower-

John gasped heavily as Sherlock's tongue circled the rim of his anus, eyelids lowered to half-mast as he observed John's reaction.

He felt like he was being plucked apart, thread by agonizing thread, as a hot tongue itself buried deeper inside of him, wet and prodding.

"Sherlock," he breathed, and Sherlock moaned against his hole at the sound, his eyes squinting shut as he delved in with renewed ardour.

There were so many new sensations, all slamming into his body with acute force, and not even the tense rigidity of his body as he curled his toes, could push back the intensity. John could feel his eyes roll back in his head as Sherlock fucked him with his tongue, only relenting occasionally to push a slick finger into his arse, against that bundle of nerves that made him clutch the edge of the table with white-knuckled fingers.

Sherlock's shoulder was moving, and John lifted higher to peer down at the man on his knees. The sight of Sherlock furiously pulling at his cock, slick with his own pre-come, was John's unraveling. Sherlock's tongue, and fuck, those eyes, that finger. So much, he couldn't even string words together.

In a haze, John realized he seemed crazed and moaning nonsense as he bucked down onto Sherlock's tongue, coming with enough force to rattle the table dangerously. Below him, Sherlock's eyes snapped shut, squeezing closed firmly as his body froze up, wracked with spasms.

John collapsed limply against the table, unable to speak, barely able to grasp the concept of breathing again as he came down from one of the best climaxes he'd ever had. John could feel Sherlock's breathing tickling his leg as he caught his breath, a damp forehead resting tiredly against his knee.

Well, Sherlock hadn't been bluffing. John couldn't find a word to say, and it was baffling that, for once in his short life, John Watson was speechless.

A chuckle from the ground pulled John from his thoughts, and he watched as Sherlock pulled back with a devilish grin, and sat properly in the middle of the kitchen, one hand on the lino behind him as he swiped a sleeve across his moist lips.

"So," Sherlock began slowly, still breathing hard as his eyes lit up gleefully, "dinner?"

\---

Sherlock ended up taking him back to Westminster, which John was sure he'd done intentionally. He knew Sherlock wasn't going to let him go for the night, and surprisingly, John found that being held hostage by the madman made him flush with pleasure.

The shower, before they left, was quiet and intimate. For the longest moment, Sherlock merely crowded him in the corner, his large hands splayed over John's waist as the water fell over them. John couldn't look away, and he could see in his eyes, that Sherlock didn't want him to. 

Afterwards, they dressed and stepped out onto the pavement, where Sherlock's driver was patiently waiting.

The restaurant they stopped at was nowhere near as fancy as he pictured Sherlock Holmes's fare to be. He'd instructed the driver to take them to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in Chinatown, where they proceeded to stuff themselves silly with dim sum, all the while, giggling like school girls and shooting one another coy looks across the table.

Had John known that this was what being with Sherlock Holmes entailed, the freedom and excitement, the happiness, he'd have agreed sooner.

As much as he liked to think that nothing could come from an agreement based solely on sex, John couldn't help but think what it could be like to fall for Sherlock. Would they always be able to be this carefree with one another? Would Sherlock get bored?

The last question only encouraged John to clamp his lips shut and keep the fanciful thoughts to himself.

When the food was cleared away and the bill, settled, Sherlock pulled John out into the night again, a smile teasing at his lips, though John was sure he didn't even know he was doing it. It was endearing, and John felt something pull at his chest, seeing such a shrewd man suddenly appear so light and relaxed.

"So you've decided to accept my offer." It was more of a statement, than a question. Nevertheless, John answered with a nod, shoving his hands in his pockets as he stared at the plethora of dangling lights and paper lanterns that lit the streets.

"John," Sherlock spoke softly, and if not for the tone, John would have avoided those eyes at all cost. Reluctantly, he glanced up, watching Sherlock search his eyes. "There's no shame in what we do, or giving your body what it wants."

John nodded, looking back straight ahead. He wasn't ashamed. What they did in bed was their business alone, but... "I'm not ashamed... God, I haven't felt this good in ages." John flashed a smile at Sherlock, but the man was watching him seriously, with firm lips and a steady gaze. "Look, Sherlock," he said, pulling the man off to the side and out of the way. "I promise, I'm not ashamed. I'm- I'm more worried about the fact that I _don't_ feel ashamed. I've never- I mean I've never done any of this before. I met a girl once who liked to play around with handcuffs-"

"I'd skip that bit and get straight to the point if I were you," Sherlock snapped testily, eyes growing dark with something unnervingly akin to jealousy as John rambled on.

John rolled his eyes and soldiered on. "What I'm trying to say," he emphasized, pushing a finger in Sherlock's chest with a glare, "is that this is sort of a first for me, you twat!"

Sherlock paused mid-sulk, his face falling as the words sunk in.

 _'God, he's such a tosser,'_ John thought fondly, seeing the smile start to creep back onto Sherlock's face.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, rocking back on his heels like a preening child. He cleared his throat. "I... I hadn't thought of it in that manner before."

John couldn't stifle the grin at the blush rising on Sherlock's cheeks. The man was always so self-assured and in control, it was a relief to see him so bashful, so... human.

"You know, Sherlock," John spoke lowly, stepping into Sherlock's space so that they were just barely touching. "That's three times you've gotten me off, already. If you want, I'd like to return the favour."

He peered up under his lashes, desperate to see the desire in Sherlock's pale gaze. Sherlock didn't disappoint.

"I don't know, John, I quite like having you beneath me," he breathed with a hint of a smirk, but his eyes were burning.

John reached up on his toes and wrapped his arms lazily around Sherlock's shoulders and let his lips tease lightly against those sharp cheekbones. "Well then, by all means, Mister Holmes, your place or mine?"

\---

Afterwards, when the heavy breathing and hot panting died down, the slick on their body cooled, John tried to remember a time when there was another that made his heart beat in his chest the way that Sherlock could. If Sherlock decided that John wasn't what he wanted, would John ever find someone else that made his every breath feel sweeter, the ache in his body, so pleasant? 

Sherlock, decidedly not a selfish lover, had laid him out on the bed and wrung every bit of pleasure that he could from John, and every noise, Sherlock would catch on his tongue. It was near sweet enough to make John want to weep and wretch. In return, Sherlock had allowed John to take his pleasure. John had straddled him, and rode Sherlock until they were both reaching for oblivion. He made sure that Sherlock came first, and followed swiftly in his wake, feeling buoyant and dazed. 

Even in the darkness, Sherlock's eyes never wavered, pellucid in the dim light of the room. No one had ever looked at John that way, pierced through him with their gaze like Sherlock could. So, John looked away, afraid of what Sherlock would see if he looked too deep. It was too soon to lose something he'd just discovered; it was like a new and wonderful thing that seemed all too good to be true. That was all well and good, but John wanted to hold on to this crazy, wonderful man while he could. 

It was too soon for love, knew that wasn't what he was feeling, but John knew himself well enough to know that he was deeply fascinated by Sherlock, and entranced in his spell. It was frightening and way past the boundaries he'd initiated in this... whatever it was he was doing with Sherlock. 

When the night came to an end, John found himself silently mourning the close of the day as Sherlock slipped out of the sheets quietly. “Go to sleep, John,” Sherlock murmured, giving him one last kiss, before he threw his gown on and retreated to the living room. A moment later, the sound of the violin.

It was clear, Sherlock wanted him there, but the intimacy of sleeping with one another, without the added sex, was a boundary that they wouldn't be crossing. John wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angry. If he wanted to sleep alone, he could have stayed home. 

The piece Sherlock was playing, built in a crescendo, and then slowly climbed down, into something soft and lovely that made John's chest ache. There was still so much about Holmes that he didn't know. If he delved deeper, what would John find beneath that steel façade? Would he last long enough to find out?

At last, the music died out, as did John's grasp on consciousness. 

_'Tomorrow,' John promised himself. 'Tomorrow.'_

Not even sure he knew what he was promising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I know it was shorter than usual, but it flowed to a natural end, and I found that stuffing in anything more would only take from the chapter. Thank you all for your continued support! You are all so wonderful, and it surprises me every time how much attention this story is actually getting! I can't say thank you enough! Anyways, for those of you who would like update info, occasional snippets, or just general Sherlock-y things, come join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com)!


	10. The Parents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spends some quality time with family, and Sherlock makes some things clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so there's not much smut in the chapter... Well, just a bit, because I couldn't resist, but the fluff is unreal, because I love parent/child interactions!

John Watson was spitting angry. There was simply no other way to describe the boiling rage bubbling dangerously beneath his skin. It seemed his face had been burning red for the majority of the day in embarrassment, and his brow felt stiff and aching with the force of his frown. 

After the night spent with Sherlock, John had, once again, woke up to an empty flat. Besides having slept alone in a strange bed, John had been content and comfortable to stay where he was. Though the fact that Sherlock hadn't joined him may have stung a little, it hadn't dissuaded John from sleeping well.

What stoked his ire was the lack of communication afterwards. Anxiously, John had waited for hours for Sherlock to return to the flat so that they could discuss the terms of their... arrangement. However, when it was nearing half five, and John hadn't heard a word from Sherlock, he reluctantly dressed and made his way home. 

Unfortunately, the weekend, it seemed would continue that way. By the next day, John still had not heard word from Sherlock, or any indication that the night they shared would eventually be acknowledged. 

The sinking feeling in his gut came first, and then the dreadful thoughts that made John doubt himself. Above all, he felt used. Maybe Holmes hadn't enjoyed the sex as John had, or either Sherlock got what he wanted and saw no reason to pursue John any further.

It hurt John in a way he hasn't prepared for. Well, it would certainly make working with Sherlock unpleasant and uncomfortable. 

When Saturday evening came, John was unsure whether he should even bother going back Monday; would it be wise to torture himself that way? Was he simply overreacting? After all, it had only been a day. Maybe it was the fact that he'd so willingly given his body to Sherlock, and in that, John felt that surely he should have received some confirmation that it wasn't just a romp in the sheets or fulfilling of a conquest.

Even then, John felt his body demanding the attention Sherlock had so lavishly paid it, taut and strained with need, burning as he thought of all the ways the man made him reach the pinnacle, only to always bring him back down. 

John had gotten too comfortable with the notion that whatever sexual relationship he was developing with Sherlock would be at least semi-permanent and monogamous for the duration of it. Just the thought of Sherlock touching someone in the same way that he'd done the night before, with John, made his stomach churn in disgust and jealousy.

God, it made him sick that he even felt that way, especially after Sherlock's initial warning that relationships were not his area. It wasn't as if Sherlock was his. He could have anyone he wanted, and John couldn't say anything, because Sherlock had made it very clear that it would go no further than their agreement.

Instead, to take his mind off of Sherlock, John took the train to Sutton to spend the duration of the weekend with his parents, stewing silently the whole way over. 

He couldn't rid his mind of the countless scenarios playing repeatedly in his head, picturing some faceless person succumbing to Sherlock's charms, arching beneath his lips, and those nimble fingers playing perfect notes over someone else's body. 

Would Sherlock lay with them afterwards? Would he deprive them of their senses and pick them apart slowly, the way he had with John?

When John reached the Sutton (Surrey) train station, his father was already waiting on the platform, speaking casually to another waiting man. This didn't surprise him, seeing as his father could talk to a wall, and the wall would probably talk back. 

When he disembarked, his father politely said his goodbyes to the stranger and quickly walked over, beaming all the way.

Rupert Watson was possibly the kindest man anyone could ever meet, and John wished he'd inherited more of that from his father. It was John's mother that had more of a temper out of the lot of them, and unfortunately, so did John, and his sister, Harriet. 

John's father greeted him with his usual quick-witted humour and a tight embrace, which John couldn't stop the urge to melt into. 

"Hey dad," he greeted sheepishly into the man's chest. Older, though John may be, seeing his parents always made him feel better, as if there was at least something good to look forward to in the world. Even now, people were always surprised to know that his parents were still together, and even if, as a cohesive team, the two could be overbearing at times, John found it comforting to know that love could weather time.

His dad tousled John's hair with a chuckle and grabbed the suitcase before indicating with a tilt of the head, that they should carry on. 

The air was heavy with the scent of rain, and on the horizon, John could spot a cluster of clouds moving threateningly nearer. "Where's mum," he asked, as they walked to the vehicle parked at the kerb.

"Oh, you know how she likes to fuss when you come home," Rupert grinned, lugging the bag into the boot of the sedan. "I wish she would cook like this when you're away. I swear the woman is trying to kill me off some days."

John smiled up at his father fondly, and dropped into the passenger seat, stretching out his legs as he reclined. It was comforting to have a conversation with someone other than Sherlock; no sexual charge and flirtatious innuendos to keep pace with.

They weren't ten minutes into the trip home when John's father turned to regard him with a wide smile. "Well, my boy, are you going to tell me what's bothering you, or are you going to continue sulking in silence?"

' _Oh God, no._ '

There was just no possible way that John could tell his father that he was sulking because his boss, turned lover, didn't call him back after a night of shagging. Just... ugh.

John shrugged, hoping to dissuade his father from pursuing what only had the potential to become a painfully awkward conversation, and pointedly changed the topic. "Have you heard from Harry lately?" 

John nearly regretted asking, as the moment the words left his lips, his father's cheerful demeanor fell into a slight, worried downturn of the mouth. John could see his knuckles turn white around the wheel. "We haven't seen her in a year, Johnny, dunno where to start looking, either," Rupert intoned with poignant solemnity. 

Harry: the name everyone was almost afraid to say. When John was barely out of secondary, she'd already been hooked on a dangerous amalgam of drugs and alcohol. No one knew where she went, and Harry never bothered to call and soothe their worries. John wasn't sure if he hated her for it, or if he was grateful that his parents didn't have to be privy to her reckless lifestyle.

Before Harry had allowed the vices to take over her life, she'd been close with John, and in a way, it felt like losing a twin. They were two years apart, but age didn't matter when they were once able to talk to one another about anything. The last time John had laid eyes on his sister was Christmas dinner the year prior, high on whatever and drunk off her arse, pale and wraithlike. John's mum had been inconsolable, and his father, flushed and wide-eyed with fear and the pain of watching his only little girl slipping away. John would never forget that.

"If she-," Rupert paused, licking his lips nervously before he continued, "when she comes back, your mother and I have decided that we will do whatever it takes to get her into a good program." John could see his father's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, and the sheen of his eyes. "That's still my little girl, and I'm not going to give up on her."

John's parents were well off, on the brink of a retirement they'd saved their whole lives for, but rehab was expensive, never mind a decent one. The cost would be nothing to sniff at, and John was sure that money would no doubt come from their retirement fund. It made him angry, and although John knew he shouldn't be upset with Harry and her addictions, he couldn't help the flicker of fury he felt whenever his parents had to make another sacrifice for her.

The rest of the ride was quiet, and John knew he was brooding, could feel his father's eyes on him as he stared out the window. Between the dramatics with Sherlock and the conversation about Harry, John felt drained, as well as the beginnings of a migraine creeping up on him.

When they pulled up to the house, it was just reaching dusk and the streets were already darkening. 

In the fading lights, John could just see the silhouette of his mother moving around in the kitchen, before the curtains were pulled back slightly to reveal a blonde haired woman with a shrewd gaze peeking out at him.

No sooner than he was stepping out of the car, the front door was swung open gusto, and his mother was walking quickly towards him, blushing with excitement. "Oh my love, look at you! Still haven't grown an inch, short like your father, but you've grown so handsome!" John grimaced as she pulled him into a hold strong enough to obstruct his breathing. In his peripheral, John could see his father struggling not to cackle, so John turned and shot him an entreating glare.

"Mum," John implored, finally bringing his arms up to return her embrace. "I saw you two months ago."

His father, at last taking pity on John, stepped in, gently placing his hands on his son's shoulders and out of his wife's clutches. "Julia, you wicked woman, give the boy some air," he demanded with good nature, winking at John when his mother scoffed in dismay.

"Oh shut it, Rupert! I missed my son, and I will smother him as much as I like!" She threw a fiery glare at her husband, though there was no true ire behind her eyes, and John found himself chuckling at their antics. He really had missed his parents. 

"Now let's get inside before the food runs cold. I made all your favorites, and I'm just finishing up the banoffee pie. Come on, up you get." His mother urged John up the stairs, his father a step behind, smiling contentedly at it all.

\---

An hour later saw them all fit to burst, and taking tea in the sitting room. The dinner had been delightful, and his mum had, indeed, made several of John's favorite dishes. 

Now, as he sipped his tea and sat back on the settee, John peered at his squabbling parents from over the rim of his cup. They were getting older, an immoveable fact that John knew couldn't be changed, yet something in him clenched at the thought of them not being around one day. His father's dark brown hair now held slivers of silver, and his receding hairline was beginning to thin. His mother was aging a bit more gracefully, still had a head full of coarse, golden blonde hair, and the brightest pair of green eyes, still as sharp as ever.

John's mum reminded him so much of Harriet, sometimes it hurt to look at her. He imagined if his dad thought the very same thing at times.

In the middle of his thoughts, John felt his phone buzz softly in his pocket, and quicker than he realized, he had the phone in his hand, heart beating loudly in his throat.

Oh. It was only Sarah.

**From: Sarah**

**John, I swear to God, if I don't hear from you soon, I will report you as missing. Txt me back!!!**

John swallowed his disappointment, and with a pained wince, realized he'd attracted the attention of his parents.

**To: Sarah**

**Drama queen. In Sutton with the parents. Prepare my funeral, would you?**

A cleared throat, and John was keenly aware of the smug smile on his father's face. "Don't think I didn't realize your terrible attempt at deflection earlier, my boy. Come on, you wouldn't deprive your mother the chance to know if her little boy has fallen for someone." And if that wasn't throwing John to the wolves, he didn't know what was.

Like a hound with a scent, his mother sat straight up and crossed her legs, leaning forward to stare directly into John's eyes with intense scrutiny. "No, my Johnny wouldn't do that." She was completely serious, and John sank back into his chair and slid down, seeing no way out of this.

Running a hand through his hair, John grimaced slightly and folded his arms over his chest, staring resolutely at his feet stretched out before him. "It's no one really. Just... someone I've taken a fancy to." He paused, more than a bit nervous as his parents hung onto his every word. "I dunno. Silly. They don't... I mean-"

John cut himself off before he could make a complete fool of himself, crying like a child over a man who had made it explicitly clear that all that was in their future was sex.

The seat beside him dipped with the weight of a body. Reluctantly, John looked up into the gentle eyes of his mother, embarrassed that he should be here, complaining, when he should be cherishing the time he had with his parents. "You know, I once had a lad that got away-"

On the other side of the room, his father let out an appalled, "Hey!" and John couldn't contain his snicker. After all, it was his fault that this all came up to begin with.

"Quiet, Rupert," she snapped in annoyance, before turning back to John with a reassuring grin. In his peripheral, his father began to sulk in a very Watson-like fashion, folding his arms over his broad chest and sinking down in the seat. "But to be honest, you'll have those passing fancies in your life, until you find the right one. Sort of like that Sarah girl, don't you think?"

' _No_ ,' John thought, ' _not at all like Sarah._ '

John almost wished it were that easy; things with Sarah had been simple, even when they'd grudgingly accepted the fact that they got on better as friends.

Just as John thought of her, his phone buzzed again. Not wanting to be rude to his mother, John ignored it for the time being. 

"Mum," John groaned, throwing his head back against the cushion, "you're terrible at this."

His mother harrumphed and rapped him on the back of the head as she got up to clear the tea. "Ungrateful brat," she huffed. "This is all from your side of the family, Rupert." Her words were spoken with sharp, clipped elocution, but John could see the corners of her lips tilt up slightly, hiding her smile.

His father, who was still trying his hand at holding a grudge, merely sniffed.

John pulled out his phone and read the new message from Sarah, once again ignoring the knot in his throat at the lack of communication from Sherlock.

**From: Sarah**

**Already making arrangements. What shall I put on ur headstone?**

**To: Sarah**

**Here lies the sad sod whose only fault was returning home for the weekend. May he rest in peace as far from his parents as possible.**

Really, his parents weren't that terrible, and visiting home was more often pleasant than anything else, but John found himself to be in a terrible mood. How was it that his contact with Sherlock could influence his attitude so greatly? Was John already that attached to the man that he couldn't go a day without talking to Sherlock?

It was a startling revelation. 

Obviously, Sherlock didn't feel the same inclination to be in constant communication with John as he, himself, did, so maybe it was time to draw the line. It would be wise to put some space between them. John didn't want to be a slave to his body, nor to the man that could seemingly own it with just his touches.

"So, who is he?"

John's heart nearly jumped ship, and he turned his head sharply to his father, who had replaced his mother on the settee beside him. His father didn't look particularly angry, or even bothered, but John hadn't told his parents of his preference for men, mainly because he never dated them. So...

"How did you-," John began, only to have his question waved off with a fluttering hand. 

His father smiled and leaned forward, as if he intended to whisper a secret. "My boy, one doesn't get this far in life without observing a thing or two." The statement reminded John so much of Sherlock, that he wondered if in some weird way, his father had channeled the man himself. "You should know that your mother and I will always accept you no matter what. You know I once had a homosexual friend. Nice looking chap that took a fancy to me-,"

John wondered if this was a story he really wanted to hear, knowing that his father rarely held back any details in his anecdotes. It could get a bit uncomfortable, but John just sat back, though alert, ready to cut his father off of he drifted into any unsavoury territory.

"- one day he took me to one of those bars, you know, but of course I hadn't realized where we were going at the time. I tell you, I'd never seen seatless trousers before-"

And this was as far he could go. "Dad, dad! I get it, just please" John implored, holding up his hands in surrender, "spare me the details."

His father stopped, sighed, and then recovered with a smile. "What I'm trying to say, Johnny, is that you like what you like, and we will love you regardless of your preference. So now, tell me about this fellow that has you all..." a hand gestured in his general direction, before his father sat back and crossed his legs, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

John frowned, rubbing the ridge between his brows with his forefinger and thumb. "Alright, you persistent old codger," John grumbled, to which his father smiled gleefully in return. Accepting his fate, John turned to confide in his father, feeling the weight in his chest give a little. "I've been seeing someone, and it just so happens that he is also my boss."

His father's eyebrows shot up, though not quite to his hairline, before his grin quickly turned lecherous. "Well, well  
Johnny. I believe you've gotten that adventurous streak from your father."

Suddenly, however, the grin faded along with his father's playful countenance. "You have to be diplomatic with these sort of things, son. Now I know it seems like a bit of a thrill now, but you have to think ahead. What kind of man is this, and what are his intentions?"

Honestly, John had been asking himself the same thing. Sherlock was a man who prided himself on what he did for a living, enjoyed control and the pleasures of the flesh, but he was also incapable of relationships and even spending a night in the same bed with a lover. 

John's father was quiet now, seemingly waiting for an answer to what John assumed were rhetorical questions. "Well, I... we haven't got all that sorted yet," he stammered, and flinched as his father raised a stern brow. "Okay, I just- I don't want mum to know yet! She'll freak!"

"Oh, you know how hard it is to keep anything from your mum- _no_ , don't give me that look," his father grinned, raising his hands in concession. "She'll certainly kill me before she comes for you, my boy. When you're ready to tell, come talk to us. But listen, sometimes the mind can lie, but the heart never does. Do what feels right here," John's father said, patting his son lightly on the chest. 

"And do be careful. Office romances can be tricky things. Believe me, before I met your mum, I was a bit of a slag in my day!"

Of course his father had to take it there, and John took that as his queue to leave. In his pocket, his phone buzzed again, a gentle thrum against his leg. 

"Please, no stories, dad," John begged, to which his father laughed jovially and retreated to the kitchen to help his wife with the dishes.

John retired to his room shortly after, feeling considerably lighter than he had before. Sarah wouldn't mind if he took a shower before he replied, so he did this in a leisurely fashion, relaxed for the first time that day.

In the shower, John leaned his head against the shower wall, allowing the water to slide over his tense muscles. The bruises on his body were fading now, a violet color that proved unflattering now in a way it didn't before. 

Sherlock's glamour was slowly lifting, and now he felt bereft, deprived of something. It made his gut churn in disgust. 

Back in the room, John forewent the clothes and slid into the bed, sighing as his head hit the pillow. 

As he sank into the bed, John glanced at the phone next to him, remembering the text from Sarah he'd neglected to check.

**Text message from Sarah**

**Text message from Sherlock Holmes**

John could feel his pulse as it ratcheted up a notch at the notifications. His thumb hovered over the screen, unsure if he should unlock it, enable his addiction to whatever it was that Sherlock fueled in him. 

Defiantly, John checked Sarah's first.

**From: Sarah**

**And you call me a drama queen. I'll come see u when you get back. Don't think I've forgotten that you completely disappeared. I know where to ;)**

John grinned at his friend's alacrity, though not quite sure how much he should tell her. Sarah wasn't a chatty woman, and he knew his secret was safe with her, but it wasn't wise to tell her everything.

**To: Sarah**

**You have no idea.**

John backed out of that thread and scrolled to the unread text, unsure why he was so nervous to read it. 

Deciding that it was better to rip the plaster off, John tapped the thread, his chest nearly heaving with anxiety.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**You left.**

**SH**

John rolled his eyes. What else did he expect from Sherlock Holmes.

Before he could tap out a reply, the phone vibrated in his hand, this time, a phone call.

**_Sherlock Holmes_ **

' _What the hell?_ '

Taking a deep breath, John answered.

"I thought you preferred to text," John sniped, feeling unusually petty. Of course, directly afterwards, his cheeks lit up in flames, embarrassed that he'd already revealed so much.

On the other end, Sherlock sighed, and John could literally picture the dramatic eyeroll that went with it. "I wouldn't take such extreme measures if it didn't take you eons to reply to a simple text, John," Sherlock returned dryly.

As expected, in John's shitty mood, it chafed. "Yes well, in response to your text, I didn't feel like waiting around for you remember that you had a guest."

It was quiet for a moment, and John could imagine the wheels turning and clicking, the sound of Sherlock's mind working. Finally, he spoke. "You're angry."

' _Too bloody right._ '

John huffed into the phone. God, he sounded like such a child, but at this point, his actions were nearly involuntary. "I'm not- I'm not angry, I just... nothing."

"You're upset that I left you at my flat. You feel used, and you're doubting that fact that I am interested in pursuing a sexual relationship with you, even after last night." A pause. "You truly are an idiot, John. Pity. I had high hopes for you.

John grimaced, turning onto his side so that the phone was sandwiched between his cheek and the pillow. "Yes, because I'm the one who left his lover in bed like a rent boy."

Over the line, Sherlock scoffed, and John could hear the shifting of fabric as he moved. "Don't be dull, John, I don't allow rent boys to sleep in my bed after intercourse. _You_ seem to have forgotten that I do run a company."

Of course, how could he forget?

Between Sherlock's disdain and his own shameful thoughts, John was beginning to realize, with dawning horror, that he was throwing a wobbly because Sherlock actually went to work. In all honesty, John hadn't stopped to think of it that way, only the fact that he'd gone asleep alone and woke up in likewise fashion. 

Rubbing a hand over his face, John groaned in frustration with himself. "I'm sorry," he said, hating that he even felt compelled to apologize. Surely if Sherlock hadn't been dissuaded by his childish fit, then John's sudden aptitude for being clingy would certainly put him off. 

"You seem to be labouring under the delusion that I don't want you, when in fact, I would very much like it if you were here now," Sherlock admitted, his sonorous baritone only growing deeper with every word. "I don't like repeating myself, but it seems you're being thicker than usual, so I'll say this in a way that even you can understand. If there ever comes a time where I don't want you, I will let you know, but until then, rest assured that there hasn't been a moment since we've met that I haven't wanted to take you against the nearest surface."

John inhaled a shuddering breath, his skin prickling at Sherlock's fervent admittance. 

"Last night was only a taste of what I have in store for you, John. Everything else you may believe is irrelevant."

"Irrelevant," John breathed out, railroaded by Sherlock's uncharacteristic reassurance.

"Yes, irrelevant," Sherlock snapped, annoyed now. "Is this going to be a common occurrence with you? I do so hate repetition. It's mind-numbingly tedious."

John smiled, recognizing an olive branch when he was offered one. "I'm in Sutton," he stated, not sure why he'd offered that piece of information when it hadn't come up to begin with.

"Ah," Sherlock breathed into the phone, "parents."

"How did-"

"I'm your employer, John. It would be remiss of me not to know these things. No matter how intriguing I may have found you, I don't hire just anyone to work for me." Sherlock paused, breathed in. "Also, I'm aware of who you're with at all times.

' _What?_ '

John sat up on his elbow, staring at the wall straight ahead in outraged confusion. " _Excuse_ me!"

Sherlock only chuckled lightly on the other end, and John found himself boiling at the sound, not at all amused. "Don't be like that. My brother, in addition to having a share of my company, also holds a minor position in the government. It is merely his way of taking precautions."

' _Precautions?!_ '

"Am I being followed," John nearly screamed, ready to tear Sherlock's head off, but the git seemed unperturbed.

"Not necessarily," Sherlock intoned, now sounding bored with the conversation entirely. "Enough about Mycroft. He intrudes on my life enough as it is. Understand that you are not being followed, Mycroft is merely keeping tabs."

It was one thing to know your employee, but John didn't like the idea that someone was watching him. A quick glance at the window assured that the curtains were tightly closed. It made him feel slightly more at ease.

"John," Sherlock said his name softly in a way that made him forget about everything but that voice. "I want you here. With me."

John's head spun with the sudden change in tone. What was Sherlock doing on the other end of the phone that made his voice all soft and breathy. 

John imagined long, pale finger drawing the strings of silk pyjama bottoms, a strong hand wrapping around a blushing erection.

"I'm sorry," John replied tremulously, though he didn't know exactly what he was apologizing for.

"Don't be," Sherlock responded, and again, John could hear the shifting of fabric. Was Sherlock in bed, too? "I wish you could see what I'm thinking of."

John did, too.

"Tell me," John whispered, his fingers twitching with the urge to touch.

John could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice as the man began to narrate his thoughts in a rich rumble that made John's mouth water. "I'm thinking of you the way you were last night, when I let you climb on top of me. I could come just thinking of it." Sherlock paused, and John was sure he could hear the man moan softly. His own hand drifted beneath the sheets, slowly.

"You were so delicious like that. In that position, gravity does all the work, and I remember how you felt, taking me all the way into you," Sherlock bit off with a groan, and John mimicked the sound, bypassing his erection to knead his balls. "I love your thighs, how soft they are, but strong. I can't get enough of being in between them, the way they squeeze around my waist. Enough strength to remind me that it's a man I'm fucking."

John's touch was dry on his prick, but even the chafe of it felt like stimulation in his heightened state. "Your lips are glorious; I could drink from them all day. Soon, I will."

"Sherlock," John groaned, pushing up into his own hand fervently, eager to hear more.

Sherlock groaned lowly at the plea, his breath coming loudly through the receiver. "It appears I can't get enough of you. Even in your flat - your kitchen - I had to have you. Does your flatmate know? Does he know that I spread you out on the same table he takes his morning tea? Does he know I had my tongue inside of you where he eats his meals?"

John arched, wrapping his fingers around his throbbing cock, unable to say a thing as Sherlock began to dissect him with just his words.

"Answer me, John, does he know we'd spilled our come over the kitchen lino?" Sherlock's voice was rough with ardour, and John was so thoroughly distracted by it, the sound of Sherlock unraveling. It was thinking of John that made him like that.

"N-no, John stuttered, inching dangerously closer to the precipice. "Fuck, Sherlock, don't stop."

Sherlock's breath hitched lightly, a sure sign that he was that much closer to an orgasm. "I want to tie you up in my room, and fuck you for days. I want to fill you up with my tongue, feel your arse squeeze around it as you come, and then fuck you through your orgasm. Would you let me?"

John was nearly crying with pleasure as he ran his hands over his cock, tugging until he began to feel that pull in his lower belly. "Yes, fuck yes!"

"You have such a lovely arse, John, I want to redden it. I would attain so much pleasure from putting you over my knee," Sherlock's voice was gaining vehemence with every word, growing rough as he began to dismantle. He was properly growling down the phone. "You're so undisciplined, insubordinate. It's what I like about you, but it makes me want to bend you over the nearest surface and spank your arse until it's black and blue."

"You don't understand how much control it takes to refrain from hurting you. I want to hurt you, open you up and take you apart. I know you're close, come for me, John."

Christ, but he did.

On the other end, Sherlock groaned beneath his breath, tremulous and soft, while John's body arched with the force of his orgasm. He bit his lips so as not to make too much noise, but even then, some noises could not be subdued. 

Sherlock had grown quiet, but John could hear water running on the other end. "I hate it when you muffle your noises," Sherlock grumbled, though without any real animosity.

"Sorry."

"Stop saying that," Sherlock growled.

John just shrugged, even though Sherlock couldn't see him, boneless and tired after his climax.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said, "tomorrow is Sunday. You should be back then. I want to see you."

It was more like a demand than a request, but curiously, John wasn't bothered by it. He wanted to see Sherlock, too.

John smiled, blushing like a virgin, even after just having had phone sex with Sherlock. "Alright," he conceded, already anxious to see him.

Sherlock cleared his throat awkwardly, which John found endearing. He could see why phone conversations weren't to Sherlock's usual taste. It seemed goodbyes were the most uncomfortable part for him.

"Good," Sherlock sniffed, his word stilted. "Tomorrow, then."

John grinned, happy that this was something he might be better at than Sherlock. "Yep," he said, knowing that it probably only made the man feel more uncomfortable, allowing him to lead the adieu's.

"Okay. Good night, John."

John pulled the phone away, realizing that Sherlock had just hung up on him, and turned into his pillow to laugh.

Sherlock Holmes could carry a conversation, but he had trouble ending them. 

Now _that_ was something John could use later.

John smiled genuinely for the first time that day.

Maybe Sherlock wasn't so bad, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates, chapter excerpts and general Sherlock-y things!


	11. The Interlude: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As posted on my [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com): "Okay so, I feel like I need to get this off my chest. Many of you who are writers and use AO3 as a creative outlet understand how timely it can be to write, edit, and post chapters on that website. We also know how scary and nerve wracking it can be to share work on a public forum for anyone to read. If you are a silent reader, please understand that feedback is such a wonderful way to let that author know that they aren’t the only ones reading their story. It can be a muse killer when it feels like all the hours of writing and editing are fruitless. Even constructive criticism is a gift when it comes to sharing a work, because I, for one, learn much from feedback and use it to further my writing. So, don’t get me wrong, you all have been lovely (silent readers, lurkers, scanners, kudo clickers, and everyone who gave my stories a chance), but please, if you have a minute to do so, let me know what you think of a chapter. This goes for any story you may be reading by any author. Everyone who has posted on AO3 has put themselves out there. Grant them the courtesy of letting them know what you think, even if it’s just constructive criticsm or simply a ‘good chapter’. In the end, it’s so gratifying for that author, believe me. No one wants to think that their story isn’t good enough. For all of you who have been kind enough to take the time to leave feedback, you have my eternal thanks, because in the long run, I am a better writer for it. Without fail, you have pointed things out to me and brought to light, points of my story that I hadn’t thought of before. Y'all keep me right! Anyways, have a good night everyone and happy reading!"

Sex.

For the majority of Sherlock's teenage and adult life, he'd considered sex a tedious, but useful vice to sway others into giving him what he wanted, when he wanted it. Sex was a tool that could be used to manipulate and bend a situation to his advantage.

Sex was meant to be boring and so disappointingly human, yet Sherlock eventually became a slave to it as so many others were.

When drugs failed to fill that perpetual emptiness in his chest, Sherlock sought to conquer the art of intimacy. Along with carnal knowledge came the vast sea of unexplored pleasures of the flesh. With sex, the possibilities were endless if one were open enough to exploring them all. If there was anyone that was up to the task, Sherlock felt that he was more than capable. It was such a simple solution, only... everyone was so _boring_.

Sherlock couldn't remember a time he'd come across one without limits or restraints, someone unafraid to cross that threshold between accepted and illicit. Everything worth pursuing in this crushingly miserable world was done under the cover of darkness and behind closed doors. It drove Sherlock insane.

One could say he was addicted to sex, but that would imply that it was a harmful habit which could be broken. Indeed, the contrary was true. The urgency to feel another body against his, to dominate and seize gratification, was innate and not exactly the worst attribute to have. There were far worse things to gravitate to, and sex was the lesser of Sherlock's evils. 

Just as Sherlock had given up all hope on finding a partner suitable for his needs, the solution appeared in the form of a certain, truculent uni student with a quick wit and a fit little body that Sherlock thought of bending in the most lewd ways. 

At first glance, John's horrendously unacceptable fashion choices and fastidiously shorn hair would lead one to believe that he was anything but extraordinary. Sherlock nearly found himself coming to the same conclusion, however, during the course of their interview, one thing became quite clear. John Watson was no more ordinary than Sherlock was, and anyone who said differently was a fool. 

John clearly hadn't taken to Sherlock upon their first meeting, and Sherlock could admit to having been a bit glib, but at the time, he hadn't known that this student would spark his interest and, eventually, his libido. 

It was risqué, offering John a position with his company and one that functioned so closely to his own, unknowing if he would quickly grow bored with his new enigma. When he'd approached Janine about his decision, Sherlock was surprised to find that he was genuinely nervous to hear what she had to say.

Janine had been a worthy assistant throughout the years she'd worked for him, and generous with her counsel. It was only fair that she had a say in who would be replacing her on the days she wouldn't be working. Of course, this is what he told himself.

"What does he have on you?" Naturally, Janine was sceptical and as always, brutally honest with Sherlock. It was why he hired her to begin with. 

Sherlock scowled and addressed her a scathing glare, wondering why, again, did he gravitate to such strong-willed individuals, let alone hire them. "You're ridiculous. What could he _possibly_ have on me? Honestly, what is it like in your tiny, little brains?"

Janine only smiled and leaned her chin on an elegantly curved hand, accustomed to Sherlock's candour. "You like him," she giggled, and Sherlock gave up all hope on getting a straight answer from the woman. "I don't know, Sherlock. Would it really be wise to hire someone you intend to shag? Seems a bit cliché for you, I think. I knew forcing you to watch Secretary was a bad idea."

Sherlock threw up his hands and prepared to stalk off, not at all sure if hiring John Watson would be beneficial to his business or his health. 

Before he could leave, Janine called to him, and with the heavy, long-suffering sigh of a tried man, Sherlock pivoted to face his assistant. "Don't worry, boss, he seems like a decent kid. Honestly, I'm more afraid for him than I am for you."

"Your loyalty astounds me, Janine," Sherlock muttered between gritted teeth, and swept from the room before she could say another world. 

For all that Janine was being facetious, she made valid arguments. Sherlock already knew that being exposed to John everyday would only lead down one path. There was no way Sherlock could work so near to John without the two of them falling into bed together eventually. It was inevitable. 

As much as John tried to hide his attraction, Sherlock didn't miss a thing, and that included the heavy-lidded stares when Sherlock said something suggestive... so he began to say more.

It was only a matter of time before Irene found out, not that John was Sherlock's dirty little secret. In fact, Sherlock had planned on letting everyone know that John was off limits, but that would imply many things that weren't true, including the misconception that they were more than bed partners.

Relationships were tawdry, treacherous attachments that Sherlock could not - _would not_ \- partake in for any of the foreseeable future. Relationships were time consuming and Sherlock only had time enough for the work.

It was at the café mere minutes from his building, when Sherlock realized he might possibly have to renege on the boundaries of what he would and wouldn't do where taking a bed partner were concerned. He'd agreed to meet with Irene for lunch and inadvertently chosen the same locale as John and his... _date_. Just the word, attached to an image of that woman was enough to make him spit fire. Though he hadn't gotten John into his bed yet, Sherlock thought he made it implicitly clear what his intentions were. Of course, this behaviour had to be corrected.

John had been nervous under Sherlock's direct gaze, and the woman - Sherlock hadn't bothered to retain her name - as well, rightly so. She needed to understand that John was not hers and that her presence was only merely tolerated. 

Sherlock's words were cordial, but John was intelligent enough to read the underlying message. Later that day, when Sherlock had John panting against him in the foyer, he was glad his message had been so obviously received and understood.

It didn't take long to have John right where he wanted him, but to Sherlock's surprise, the boy was a bit cleverer than Sherlock had originally given him credit for. John cottoned on much quicker than was expected and he gave just as good as he got. 

Of course, it was the work of another individual, when Sherlock arrived at the office to a lovely surprise. John was properly teasing him with those snug trousers that had Sherlock thinking of twenty seven different ways he could discard them. Golden strands had been combed and styled, and Sherlock ached so badly to muss them up in several different and enticing scenarios.

Sherlock was enthralled and ready, but John was not. His thoughts were growing steadily more depraved whenever they turned towards John, he just hadn't realized the extent until that night. 

John called him while Sherlock was reclining on his couch, the dark thoughts of days past intermingling with the present, and all the ways he wanted to take John apart. 

John was... John _was _.__

__It'd been years since Sherlock felt the need so certainly, so clearly to bury himself deeply into something, someone. He knew he had an addictive personality, nearly overdosed twice in his life on bad decisions and greed. Even with all the money and the work, Sherlock recognized that tug that called him towards the darker desires. He didn't necessarily ignore them, it was too much a part of him to, and now that John unwittingly presented himself as a perfect candidate, Sherlock wanted him._ _

__John had no clue what he was offering himself up to, or to whom, rather, but he would find out sooner than anticipated._ _

__When Sherlock arrived at the pub, John was slumped against the wall, looking for all the world like a young boy who'd wandered into the wrong side of town. John's cheeks were a ripe red, the effect of his inebriation, and his lips, slick and inviting. Sherlock should have taken, taken, taken, because all of those greedy thoughts from long ago were seeping in again like a poisonous gas. Sherlock wanted to consume him, there, anywhere he could. Sherlock had to get him home, into his bed._ _

__In the room, with John undressing in such close proximity to him, Sherlock nearly lost all control. He'd enjoyed John's tenacity a little too much, and now Sherlock's mind was screaming for him to throw the stubborn idiot onto the bed and fuck him until he couldn't say a single thing. John had a quick tongue, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to throw the boy over his lap until John submitted. He could already picture it; John's bottom bright red with his hand prints, knowledgeable of that fact that he'd caused the erection pressing firmly into his belly._ _

__John laid himself on Sherlock's bed, a perfect specimen of temptation personified. Sherlock wanted to lay atop him and sink in, but John was drunk and hardly capable of giving his consent. The last thing Sherlock needed was a messy lawsuit, and more than that, a willing partner was simply more fun._ _

__In the early hours, John came to him, exquisitely sleep roughened and Sherlock could no longer hold himself accountable for what he might do._ _

__It was just a taste, but the aftermath was immediate and intense. John's mouth wrapped around his swollen cock, a picture of deceptive innocence. His John was anything but, and never pretended otherwise. He was inexperienced where sex between men was concerned, but those things could be learned with time and practice. Sherlock wanted to be the one to teach John the way around a man's body._ _

__Sherlock was taken away and back again, and John was so very lovely at his feet. Sherlock would say he'd corrupted John, but that seed had been planted long ago. Sherlock had John's curiosity, and so he also had his body._ _

__John was perfectly submissive beneath his touch, and the beast in Sherlock responded to the offering, taking what it claimed as its own, and John let him because he was just as much a slave to the flesh as Sherlock. Maybe that was what attracted him to John, the gluttonous need that they had to stifle for everyone else, because it wasn't normal, didn't fit with the rest._ _

__John wanted more than sex, and Sherlock's desires extended far past fucking, and dropped into forbidden territory. He wanted to hurt John, and John wanted to be hurt._ _

__In a way, it was a relief to find that the dark thing that lived in him, also resided in someone else. He wasn't alone, and John had stumbled right into his lap like a lamb to slaughter._ _

__The first time he took John to 221C, John hadn't yet realized what it was he wanted, and frustratingly tip-toed round the answer until Sherlock showed him._ _

__Sherlock found his salvation that day, between John's sturdy legs and glistening maw, and everything else became irrelevant. Everything ceased to be, and it was John just the way he'd envisioned him in the beginning: tied up, displayed, and completely at Sherlock's mercy._ _

__Not even Irene, who had taught Sherlock and in turn showed him what real submission was by example, could compare to the power he felt in having someone so wild and alike at his behest. They were two primal, needy souls becoming one and altogether crawling beneath each other's skin. Irene had been a test run in comparison, a good one, but all the same, Sherlock found his affair with John to be so much more fulfilling._ _

__John was putty beneath his hands, and his body was equal parts soft like a woman's, in his youth, and hard in all the places Sherlock needed him to be. With John, his partner's masculinity never came into question, there was nothing androgynous about his boy. John's legs were powerful round Sherlock's waist as he _finally_ buried himself as deep as he could go. John's body accepted him as one would a long time lover, and Sherlock could but sigh in bliss at the sensation of his erection nestled between John's well-formed arse and the mattress. _ _

__John's thighs were rubbed red from the rope and the sight of him left Sherlock breathless at the iniquity of their joining. It took everything in Sherlock not to keep John tied there for the duration of the night, until he was well and ready, plug him up with Sherlock's semen still inside of him, possessing him._ _

__After that, Sherlock couldn't get enough. John called to him, even without saying a word, and Sherlock was compelled to answer._ _

__After work, he'd let himself into John's flat and followed a trail of clues to his room. John was sleeping and Sherlock, entranced, ventured inside to keep watch if only for a little while. This was obsession, being unable to tear his eyes away, possession, because his fingerprints were bruised into John's body like landmarks to show he'd been there and conquered._ _

__In sleep, John appeared unsullied, pure in a way one would immediately dismiss once they got a glimpse of his murky blue eyes. John Watson was many things, but chaste definitely wasn't one of them._ _

__Sherlock stayed for the better part of an hour, before he grew bored and decided to explore while he had the chance. John didn't keep many possessions, and the ones he did, were obviously for sentimental reasons as they held no real monetary value.  
__

__John's wardrobe was about as lacklustre as Sherlock had expected it to be. Ugly jumpers and trousers that did nothing for John's figure. That would have to change soon.__

__Sherlock was tempted to offer John a room in his flat, but knowing him, as Sherlock was quickly beginning to, John would be insulted. He would see the offer as charity, and if there was one thing John loathed, it was feeling like a burden, bullheaded as he was._ _

__Eventually, Sherlock drifted out to the living room and switched on the telly. It was mere background noise, and somewhere between episodes of Downton Abbey, Sherlock slipped away into his mind palace, crammed now with memories of John and the slew of new information he'd gathered about his boy.  
__

__There was now a hall dedicated to John, filled with dark, cobalt blue walls, the colour of his eyes, and sheets the shade of John's cheeks when he blushed. Each door opened to a memory, and it seemed fitting that the first one revealed Sherlock's office and a nervous John sipping tea across from him.__

__Though it wasn't long ago, to Sherlock, it seemed years ago that he almost let John slip through his fingers for the simple fact that he hadn't observed. John would have walked out and it was likely that Sherlock would never have seen him again._ _

__For a time, Sherlock perused the hall, stepping into different memories until a noise drew him out of his mind._ _

__John._ _

__Sherlock could hear him shuffling around in his room, before crossing to the kitchen, apparently oblivious to Sherlock's presence. Anyone could be in the flat, and John wouldn't know a thing until it was too late. Sherlock was tempted to lock John up in 221B and forbid him to step foot in this building ever again. It should be condemned. The flat brought to mind Sherlock's more sordid days, where he didn't care where he slept, as long as he was good and high._ _

__Sherlock ignored the part of him that whispered the truth. Sherlock wanted to keep John near him._ _

__Sherlock had to bite back his smile when John finally emerged from the kitchen, adorably - ridiculously so, and since when did Sherlock begin to have use for such a word - ruffled. He was also topless and Sherlock's eyes lingered on the low-slung waistband of John's sweats, idly commenting on John's horrendous vocabulary as he stood. His mouth was much too beautiful to be spewing so much filth, and Sherlock could think of a few other things he'd rather John be doing with it._ _

__In the light of the kitchen, John seemed hesitant and distant. Some part of Sherlock panicked at this, ready to do anything to sway John in his favour. In the end, Sherlock fell back to what he knew best, and allowed his body to do the talking. What his mind didn't allow his mouth to say, Sherlock could always use his body as an appropriate filler. John wouldn't say no to him, and even a day away left them both starving for another taste._ _

__There on his knees with the elixir of John's flavour spilling on his tongue, Sherlock was at his most depraved. An hour could have passed and Sherlock would not have noticed, because John was writhing beneath him and everything else could go hang. He didn't care that his hair was wild and bespoke suits weren't meant to be spent on. Sherlock had the money to replace such trifles, but John was extraordinary and Sherlock wasn't bored, didn't think he could ever be bored with _him_._ _

__Then, John was coming and Sherlock was consuming, because eventually what they had would become a vicious cycle of devouring one another until there was nothing left, and even then, Sherlock would be greedy and taking and John - brilliant John - would give it all to him._ _

__When they were all cleaned up and John agreed to accompany him to dinner, Sherlock took him away, and John knew he wasn't going to let him go home afterward. There was too much between them that needed to be explored, and Sherlock felt better for it if John was with him at Baker Street._ _

__Sherlock chose dim sum, just so he could watch bite-sized morsels disappear between those pink lips, and fantasize about where they would be later._ _

__When they were back at Baker Street, Sherlock took what he wanted and returned it in kind. They spent the night discovering each other's bodies and Sherlock reveled at the chance to fit his body between John's thighs and give him something to remember._ _

__\---_ _

__"I'm not even going to bother asking whether you've heard a word I said. A lady doesn't like to be ignored, Sherlock."_ _

_'Then a lady should stop rambling,'_ Sherlock thought acidly. 

__His meetings with Irene never grated more than it did then, sitting in an overrated, three-star Michelin restaurant, surrounded by bloated businessmen and their trophy wives. This was right up Mycroft's alley, but it only succeeded in irritating Sherlock to near insanity._ _

__Sherlock scowled, slumping in his chair in a way that earned him a disapproving 'tsk' from the woman across from him. Irene was radiant as ever, beautiful, but Sherlock's mind was on the equally lovely blond currently out of his reach._ _

__Sherlock had half a mind to travel to Sutton and retrieve John himself, but his young lover certainly wouldn't approve. Besides, John would be back that evening, and Sherlock would be at the train station to pick him up._ _

__"It's the boy isn't it," she purred, running a fastidiously lacquered nail down the arm of his suit jacket, reading him accurately as she so often did. "I see you're quite taken with your new friend. Tell me, how is he in bed?"_ _

__Irene's mention of John made Sherlock bristle for reasons he couldn't be sure of. He often shared details of his conquests with her, men that were particularly hard to seduce or women, when Sherlock had a taste for them. There were no secrets between them, but speaking about John in such a blasé fashion left a strange feeling in his chest._ _

__When he didn't respond immediately, Irene's eyes narrowed in a way that suggested she was aware of everything Sherlock wasn't saying. His skin prickled under her stare, and he was briefly reminded of the sensation of a spiked heel dipping into his back, nails scratching welts into his shoulders. They'd had bad days._ _

__"You have had sex with him, haven't you," Irene enquired with a tight smile that hid emotions Sherlock couldn't begin to uncover._ _

__Sherlock rolled his eyes, irrationally angry with Irene. She would prod until either she grew tired or Sherlock gave in, and he knew how patient the woman could be. "Of course, I have," he snapped, feeling his skin crawl, speaking about John as if he were another one of their bets._ _

__"Hm, he must be quite something if you're not spilling your guts to me." Irene sat back in her chair, staring pensively back at Sherlock, her diamond bracelet reflecting light as she brought a finger up to her rosy lips. "You'll take care to be mindful, my love. These affairs can get a bit... messy," Irene crooned the last word, smiling devilishly, a sight that once excited and enamoured Sherlock. Now, it just made him feel repulsed._ _

__Sherlock held up a hand to Irene in a stopping motion, speaking between gritted teeth. "Save the lecture, Irene. If I recall clearly, it was you with the problem of hapless ex-lovers." Indeed, Irene had a trail of broken hearts following her wherever she went. It was no surprise that at least one would come out of the blue eventually, and they had. A series of mysterious letters with an unfortunate amount of personal information regarding Irene's more... nefarious endeavours nearly made it to the press. Sherlock was mentioned as her accomplice, which would have been hell for his PR department, so Sherlock had made it his business to uncover the fool who thought to cross him. He'd sued the man for libel. It'd costs Sherlock a heavy sum to keep the proceedings out of the public eye, but nothing he couldn't easily afford. In this case, Mycroft's connections had also come in handy._ _

__Irene wasn't phased by the jibe, nor did her smile falter, but the glint in her eyes grew sharp. "Okay," she sighed dramatically, settling her chin over her laced fingers. "Don't say I didn't warn you."_ _

__The rest of their lunch went smoothly, though Sherlock couldn't shake the unease he felt at her words or his reaction to them._ _

__Why couldn't he talk about John?_ _

__\---_ _

__Dusk had settled heavily upon London when John's train finally pulled into the station. They'd kept a steady correspondence for most of John's journey home, and now his lover finally disembarking. Sherlock instructed the driver to wait at the kerb while he fetched John, uncharacteristically giddy._ _

__John was just stepping onto the platform when Sherlock spotted him, discreetly peering round as he made a beeline for the queue of cabs._ _

__Sherlock stayed carefully out of John's field of vision, and followed leisurely behind him, allowing his eyes to traverse down John's back to a pair of denims that Sherlock found he quite liked on John._ _

__When John was on the pavement, Sherlock pulled out his phone and quickly sent a text._ _

__**To: John Watson** _ _

__**Quite rude that you should walk right past me, when I've come all this way for you.** _ _

__**SH** _ _

__Sherlock tucked his phone away and leaned on the wall behind John, shoving his hands in his pockets as he waited for John to receive his text. A moment later, John was squinting down at his screen, before he whipped around, coming face-to-face with a smirking Sherlock._ _

__"Sherlock," John exclaimed, his smile propelling Sherlock's pulse into overdrive. Whatever it was, Sherlock rubbed his chest to ease the feeling away. "You came."_ _

__Sherlock pushed off the wall and settled a hand on the small of John's back, guiding him towards the vehicle waiting at the kerb. The driver, a tall, pale Scotsman with the gift of neutrality and discretion, nodded at John and took his bag to place in the boot of the car. Sherlock held the door for John and slid in after him, anxious for a moment alone._ _

__Before the car even began to merge onto the street, Sherlock was leaning over to pull John into an ardent embrace. Their noses bumped and teethed clashed, but Sherlock couldn't be arsed to care when his salvation was looming before him in a tight shirt and denims that made his prick ache with want._ _

__John could hardly keep up and Sherlock needed to breathe, but he couldn't bring himself to pull away until the very last moment._ _

__Black spots were dancing across his vision, but John's smile was blinding and called him back for another taste._ _

__John's lips were a succulent treat that eased Sherlock's greedy palate. He felt like a teenager again, snogging heavily in the back of a vehicle, fogging up the windows with their heavy breaths._ _

__A soft moan against his lips nearly had Sherlock rutting against John in a demonstration he was sure the driver wouldn't appreciate._ _

__John was giving just as good as he got, almost in Sherlock's lap by this point. His slight body was twisted to accommodate Sherlock's wandering hands as his blunt fingers tangled in chaotic curls._ _

__"I want you naked in 221C when we get home," Sherlock growled, ready to strip John then and there, and fuck his boy without all the preamble and eloquence. As much as he wanted to play, Sherlock wanted to bury himself as deep into John as he could get._ _

__John's eyes fluttered closed against Sherlock's cheek, soft and brief, like a touch of butterfly wings._ _

__Sherlock disentangled the hands from his hair, bringing both palms up to lay a kiss on before he settled back into his seat. John rested against him, a comfortable weight at his side as they both lost themselves to their thoughts._ _

__They were halfway to Baker Street when Sherlock realized his error._ _

__Home. He'd implied that his home was John's, that they shared a flat and were heading to it together. It was a slip of the tongue, but the kind that caused misconceptions and _hurt feelings_. Sherlock was comforted that the thought of such things still disgusted him, even with all the strange, new emotions emerging recently. _ _

__Sherlock peered down into the crown of blond hair tucked into his shoulder and the profile of John's slightly upturned nose, annoyingly endearing. If such a time came, letting go of John should be easy, so why did Sherlock fill with dread at the very idea?_ _

__It was dark when the vehicle pulled alongside the kerb, and Sherlock was unusually lethargic. All the introspection caused him to feel drained and unsure of himself. Sherlock lead John inside with instructions for the driver to leave John's baggage in 221B's sitting room._ _

__Once inside, Sherlock didn't stop to remove his coat. He pulled John by the hand up the flights of stairs leading to 221C._ _

__As confused as he was, Sherlock needed this, needed John's body to refocus his attention on something that didn't involve thinking. The physicality of sex was more than enough to take Sherlock's mind off of his own treacherous thoughts._ _

__John was already stripping when Sherlock turned to bolt the door, before striding to the cupboard on the other side of the room. Again, he chose rope, and a few other items, though none that John would be disagreeable to John._ _

__The minute John's knees hit the floor, Sherlock's breath left him and his cock twitched to life beneath his trousers._ _

__John didn't know what a perfect picture he presented. Submission was not something that came naturally to most men, and was an attribute that developed with time and training. Anyone would think John a trained submissive if they saw him as he was that moment, that was, of course, until he opened his mouth._ _

__John's dark eyes gleamed with excitement and that something sinful that always lurked underneath. Cheeks pink with excitement, John awaited a command._ _

__"You're such a good listener," Sherlock growled in a thick, aroused rumble, and John shivered as Sherlock bent to take his mouth again in a quick, harsh kiss. Sherlock pulled away before they could get carried away, and urged John to lie prostrate on the floor._ _

__John's arse curved elegantly beneath Sherlock's hands, warm, soft mounds he couldn't resist the urge to nip. John jumped, but Sherlock steadied him with a hand to the small of his back._ _

__"I'm going to tie your arms behind your back," Sherlock narrated, gently bringing John's arms together behind him._ _

__Irene had taught him about simple rope bondage, as well as the more elaborate art of Kinbaku. Sherlock remembered that lesson well, watching Irene tie intricate knots around her submissive's body. It had been aesthetically beautiful and erotic, the lattice-work of rope around Kate's breasts and down her ribs. The knot at her pelvic bone allowed for the rope to split her vaginal folds and up her buttocks, where it joined her bound wrists. The process took time, but in the end, Kate was Irene's masterpiece._ _

__Sherlock began his work with tying the rope into a loose bow string, and putting each of John's arms through the bow where it rested lightly on his upper shoulder and the knot, between his upper back. He repeated the process, each time putting John's arms into the bows until his arms were bound behind his back, down to the wrists, the ladder of rope gradually growing more cinched until John's hand met at the small of his back. The rope appeared to take the form of an exoskeleton, each knot dipping into the curve of John's spine. The dragonfly sleeve; the very first rope bond Irene taught him without Kate as an example._ _

__Sherlock stripped his coat and jacket, and rolled up his sleeves, anticipating the game, and eager to play with John. John was surprisingly quiet, still lying on his belly, though he'd began to squirm in discomfort. His erection was pressing against the floor._ _

__Sherlock crouched, so that he was hovering over John's side, and ran a hand down his back, stopping just at the swell of John's buttocks. "You're doing so well, John," he whispered, bending to press a kiss on the crown of John's head. "Before we begin, we need to establish a safe word."_ _

__Of course, Sherlock would know the moment that John experienced any discomfort, but from previous experiences, Sherlock understood that a safe word also allowed the submissive a sense of security. If John felt uncomfortable, Sherlock wanted to hear it from his mouth._ _

__"I- I don't know," John twisted against the floor, turning his head to peer up at Sherlock to the best of his ability._ _

__Sherlock ran a soothing hand through his hair, unable to stop himself from providing John with comfort and assurance. "It can be any word of your choosing."_ _

__John thought for a moment, laying his cheek gently against the floor in pensive silence. "Sapphire," he said, finally, and Sherlock nodded, curious but willing to wait until later to enquire about John's inspiration for his safe word._ _

__"Sapphire," Sherlock confirmed, before wrapping his hand around John's waist, and hoisting him up until he was on his knees, his upper body still pressed against the floor. "Are you ready, John?"_ _

__John hesitated, but then nodded, and just like that, the game was on._ _

__Sherlock enjoyed seeing John this way, splayed for him. He didn't need spreader bars; John's legs had already unwittingly opened for him. Sherlock began with an adjustable cock ring, something that could be easily removed if it was too much for John. He wrapped it around John's scrotum and over the top of his erection, adjusting the strap until it fit snug._ _

__The sight was too much to handle, so Sherlock turned back to the assortment of supplies on the bed, before he decided to forego it all and push into John's firm body instead._ _

__He grabbed the tube of lube and settled down on his knees behind John, massaging the soft skin of John's arse with reverent caresses. "I'm just going to loosen you up a bit," he murmured, leaning forward to press his lips to the small of John's back, and beneath his mouth, the skin trembled. Sherlock squeezed a handful of lubrication on into his palm, rubbing it onto his finger and the excess between John's cheeks._ _

__Using his index finger, he pushed until John's anus gave way, an inviting temptation that Sherlock yearned to accept. Steadily, he worked his finger in until he felt John was ready for another, and then one more._ _

__Magnificent._ _

__When John began to squirm, Sherlock corrected him with a sharp slap on his rear, and John jumped, groaning into the hardwood. "Stay still, John, or do you want another?"_ _

__Sherlock was ready for the moment that John would slip again. He craved the sting in his palm, and John's delightful little whimper made his cock leap in desire._ _

__John squirmed again, but this time, Sherlock knew it was intentional._ _

__So that would be the game, then?_ _

__"Have it your way," Sherlock stated, and stood to retrieve the small, clear plug on the bed. Without preamble, Sherlock knelt and pressed it inside, until the tip was just barely nudging John's prostate. His boy's gasp was sweet, but Sherlock would rather taste it._ _

__Sherlock pulled John up by the rope, first his upper body, and then steadied him until John could stand on his wobbly legs._ _

__Sherlock walked to the padded leather chair in the corner and sat, pulling John over his lap like an errant child. "Rule number one: do not disobey me." Without warning, Sherlock lifted a hand and brought it down sharply onto John's arse, wringing a shocked cry from his beautiful lips._ _

__"Fucking Sherlock," John growled, "no warn-"_ _

__Again, Sherlock landed another hit on John's arse deliberately avoiding the plug. "Rule number two: you do not speak in here, unless I give you permission to."_ _

__John was panting against Sherlock's legs now, but Sherlock couldn't spare the attention. His gaze was riveted on the imprint of his hand on John's blushing arse, the rise and fall of his body as John struggled to catch his breath. What a magnificent creature that Sherlock had all to himself. Nobody could ever see John that way, would never, because he belonged to no one else but Sherlock._ _

__Another slap, this time directly on the plug, which caused John to jerk and shudder, a whimper ripped sharply from his throat. "Rule number three: no one is ever allowed to touch you, but me." No one, no one else had earned the privilege to touch his John, run their fingers through his golden hair, kiss him, crawl inside of him. No one would ever do this for John, but Sherlock._ _

__His hand was smarting, but Sherlock didn't care, because all that yielding flesh was coming apart beneath his hands, and he needed so much more. Once more, with rigour, and John was crying out in pained ecstasy. "Rule number four: I will have you when I want you, where I want you. I will decide and you will not deny me."_ _

__John was delirious, pushing his arse up in Sherlock's lap, presenting himself with so much trust to a beast in disguise. Sherlock's body was aching with the strength it took to restrain his baser urges._ _

__John was his sacrifice, his alter, his temple, and every orifice, Sherlock's sanctuary._ _

__"Please, please, please..." John was pleading in a soft undertone, but Sherlock wasn't going to relent until John was screaming for him._ _

__"Rule number five: you belong to me and I do not share. If you want someone else, I will let you go, but not before I tie you up and fuck you, and show you what you'll be missing."_ _

__John was frantic and writhing and Sherlock was at the end of his tether. Feeling feverish and disconcerted, Sherlock pulled the plug out and flung it away, manoeuvring John to stand with his back to him. Sherlock quickly pulled open his trousers and released his straining erection. He rubbed the remnants of the lubrication over himself, unable to think of anything else but John's arse swallowing his cock._ _

__When John was fully seated, Sherlock grabbed those lovely hips with both hands and thrust up, relishing John's sharp breaths in his ear._ _

__"Sher-Sherlock," and it only made him pound harder._ _

__Yes, yes. This was exhilaration, this was freedom and devilry and debauchery. This was hedonism at its finest and Sherlock fell back into it like bad habits, because John was certainly one he wouldn't be giving up anytime soon._ _

__No, Sherlock wasn't a slave to sex anymore. He was a slave to John Watson._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates and Sherlock-y stuff!


	12. The Press

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John doesn't leave his flat, yet so much occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, thank you all so much who took the time to provide feedback and all the kudos! It's so motivating to know that people out are actually reading this. Also, I want to thank **_HighTimeWithHiddles_** for the introduction of the amazing word twatwaffle! Also, my apologies in advance for the horrible graphics. The tabloid graphics was the first time I've made my own, so haha please go easy all my artistic readers!
> 
> Those of you who like to read with music, I mostly just put this song on repeat during the bedroom scene: [Dark Star by Jaymes Young](https://youtu.be/wlXQIotlx3U)

John stared and stared and stared some more, unable to comprehend what he was seeing because it was not happening. John most certainly wasn't seeing himself on the morning paper because it just simply wasn't right. There was no way that John could appear in the newspaper and not be aware that someone had followed him - them - and snapped a picture and John not spot them right off. It couldn't have happened because John had more sense than to be walking around London completely unawares, even if Sherlock had been the most distracting thing at the moment.

No matter how many times John blinked - which could have been no less than ten times in less than thirty seconds - the image didn't disappear. All the amount of glaring in the world couldn't make this mishap go away, and John wasn't able to make heads or tails of how he was feeling, to know that his private life had just been made very, _very_ public. 

The tea on the table was long gone cold and the draft in the room went unnoticed, because John didn't have the brain capacity to respond accordingly to the goose pimples breaking out over his skin or the rising dread crawling up his spine like a tremor. 

_'Oh, dear God...'_

If John could describe the moment, he would say it was like an earthquake. One minute, John is going about life as usual, unprepared, unassuming and then so suddenly, everything becomes shaky and tilted and suddenly his feet are off the ground, and he's no longer standing. Yeah, it was something like that, except there was no earthquake and London was still there, and now John had to go out and _face_ London with the knowledge that his image was plastered over the front page next to Sherlock bloody Holmes in what had to be _the most_ misleading pose.

There was fly hovering over his toast, but John couldn't think past _'Oh, dear God, what was I thinking'_ , and sure enough, the fly landed on the piece of toast and probably threw up on it. So along with John's morning cuppa, there went his sodding toast, but all of that didn't matter because his sorry mug made the morning paper _holding hands with Sherlock fucking Holmes!_

John stared and stared and stared some more, but he wasn't Houdini and he couldn't make _that_ shit disappear. 

Those fucking _twatwaffles_ had the nerve to follow him and invade in his private life! John hadn't even told his parents about Sherlock - not that he'd particularly planned on it, either - and now they were probably spitting their morning herbals all over one another at the kitchen table.

In the bedroom, John distinctly heard his ring tone sound off so he did what every smart man in a hairy situation would do. He let the phone ring and ring and ring. 

_'Fuck that,'_ John thought. _'Not digging my grave today.'_ Then, he promptly went back to staring.

It could have been worse, John reasoned, because if he were honest, the picture wasn't half bad. It was actually kind of cute, if one were on the outside looking in. It was after their dinner in Chinatown and Sherlock was leading him to his car where he'd instructed the driver to wait. It was only a short paragraph stuffed to the left next to an overly descriptive essay about Moose. In comparison, the piece wasn't much at all but anyone that knew John would catch it instantly, and anything about Sherlock Holmes always raised much ado in London. What was worse was finding that someone had been watching them from the moment they stepped foot in Chinatown. Someone must have recognized Sherlock and sold his picture to the paper in the hopes of making a few pounds. It grated, the fact that someone intruded on his life for profit.

That must be how celebrities felt, never having a moment to themselves in the public eye. John wasn't anybody by any means, but Sherlock was, so why should it come as a surprise that the Paparazzi would cotton on to a suspected new relationship for the millionaire?

It was Friday and John was off of work, so he had nothing to do but sit back and despair over the fact that any sort of relationship with Sherlock would probably not be a secretive one.

Again, John's phone began to go off and he rose to make his way to the bedroom, but the knock on the door stopped him in his tracks. 

Okay, one, it was his day off and everyone could go hang. Two, it was his day off and _everyone could go hang!_

However, the knocking was persistent and John was not in the mood to spend his day downing Paracetamol for a migraine. He sighed and headed for the door wishing, for once, that he was telepathic, because then he wouldn't have to physically tell this person to go away. They would just _know_. 

The first thing he registered was Sarah's flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. The second thing was the bag of pastries clutched in one hand and the tabloid in the other. Now, Sarah only bought pastries for John when he was in a black mood or having a particularly bad week. Also, Sarah never read tabloids because she thought they were crude and reading any sort of libel wasn't her cup of tea. 

Try as he might, John couldn't withhold the groan or the way his eyes squinted in pain at the glimpse of two heads, one dark and curly, the other a sandy blond on the front page, undoubtedly Sherlock and himself. 

"Christ, another one," John groaned, slumping back to allow Sarah through the entrance. It wasn't even past ten and already, John just wanted to crawl beneath his sheets and reset the clock back to the day before, when he was at Baker Street being skillfully taken apart by Sherlock. 

Sarah went ahead of him to the kitchen and John trailed behind, dragging his feet over the lino because he really wasn't looking forward to whatever filth the tabloid had to say about his relationship with Sherlock. It was usually about as far from investigative journalism as it could get and venturing happily into the land of outright lies and made up stories, as tabloids tended to do. 

"Let me see it, then," John said, sticking his hand out for the paper that Sarah was reluctant to release. "Believe me, it won't be the first ridiculous thing I've read today." Was it really as ridiculous as he made it out to be? Was there even a label for what John had with Sherlock?

Sarah swallowed and placed the bag of pastries on the table. Whatever appetite John did have, swiftly flew out the door the moment he'd seen what the tabloid said.

It was gaudy and ugly and embellished, as all parodic papers tended to be. _The Daily Cup_ , it read proudly, as if anything in it would be Nobel prize worthy. The front was jumbled with all sorts of lunacy, including a picture of Sherlock looking, for all intents and purposes, like shit, beside which, a large yellow arrow declaring that Holmes Pharmaceuticals was filing for bankruptcy. Sherlock Holmes a former drug addict? What utter shite! On top of that, there were two pictures of them together from earlier in the week, walking out of work together. Obviously Sherlock had notice they were being watched, as in one, the man was looking in the general direction of the camera, so why hadn't he said anything? The other was just a moment of silliness between them that ended - awkward on both parts - in a caricature of a hug. Still, the moment had been theirs, and now it was taken and shared with a city of unknowns.

A small hand came to rest on his fingers, and John realized that they'd been trembling around the edges of the paper. "John, are you alright?"

Of course he wasn't alright! John's privacy was infringed upon and in doing so, they hadn't cared whether it would affect him or not. John wouldn't expect them to, but this wasn't anything that happened to him on a daily basis. For Sherlock, however, this must be the norm. John remembered googling Sherlock before the initial interview, and how the man often eluded the camera. If that were the case, then how would the Paparazzi know what Sherlock looked like? Could it be that someone close had them followed and sold their pictures to the media? 

John huffed a breath and dropped back into his seat, tossing the tabloid on the table. "God, I'm so stupid! How've I missed that we were being followed?"

Sarah pulled the seat opposite to sit next to John, worrying her bottom lip with a perfect row of sparkling teeth that he always found himself envying. It was still too bad things didn't work out with Sarah; she really was a beautiful woman. 

"I'm sorry you had to go through this, but... John, do you think this thing with Holmes is worth the scrutiny of the press?"

Sarah had a point, but John still felt the irrational tug of anger at his friend even as he knew there was truth to her words. Sherlock Holmes didn't _do_ relationships and if what they had was just sex and power dynamics, was it worth the trouble and John's peace of mind?

As quick as it boiled up, John's anger died a lacklustre death until it faded back into worry and unmitigated fatigue. "Sarah, I- I _like_ Sherlock. I don't want any of this, but I can admit this might be a bit of a disadvantage."

"A bit," Sarah conceded with a tiny, playful smile. "Whatever you choose, I'll be here for you," she said softly, and John embraced her before he could even think about it. The hug was mercifully short, because no, John was not a sappy feelings sort of bloke, and Sarah was still an attractive female. 

"That's sorted, then," Sarah announced with finality and grabbed the bag of pastries. Standing up, she held out a hand for John and he took it. "Come on, I think I've found the best scones in all of London!"

John rolled his eyes, seriously doubting it. Every time Sarah said she had the best of something, the food always turned out to be overrated and lacking in anything remotely edible. Her intentions were good, but Sarah's sense of taste was a bit... avant-garde. 

John tossed his tepid cup of tea, refilled the kettle and put it on the hob. After all the excitement of the morning, the soothing machinations of preparing tea brought back a bit of normality. 

"John," Sarah called from the other room, and John broke away from his stupor and left to join his friend in the sitting room. 

They passed a majority of the day and most of the afternoon switching between crap telly and Doctor Who reruns on BBC, eating up the kitchen and avoiding the news if they could. John didn't want to know if there was video footage, or if he should be expecting to see his own face on the telly. It was bad enough that there was probably a mag stand somewhere with their pictures scattered all over it. John would make sure to avoid that area when he dared to venture out.

It really shouldn't have been a surprise when in the middle of their seventh episode of the day, Sherlock swept into John's flat like a man who owned the place. Yes, no surprise there.

What _was_ a surprise was the absolutely scathing glare Sherlock shot John once he'd caught a glimpse of his cozy snuggle on the couch with Sarah. It was completely opposite of what it looked like, and not the first time they'd slumped on the couch together in that same fashion, but for some reason, John felt as if he'd been caught red-handed. 

John could feel Sarah tense against his chest and the way her breathing grew shallow. 

"Sherlock," John began hesitantly, and Sherlock's scowl only grew darker. "I didn't know you were coming."

Sherlock stepped into the room and shrugged his coat off with a calmness that belied his demeanour. "Obviously," he snapped, hanging the coat on the coat rack a bit rougher than necessary. 

Dreading Sherlock's imminent dramatics, John poked Sarah on her back so that he could sit up. Sarah didn't waste any time, her movements jerky and hasty as she stood and shuffled into her shoes. Sherlock watched her with a hawk-like gaze the entire time. John had a mind to throw the leftover bag of crisps at the idiot's head. 

"It's getting a bit late, anyways," Sarah sighed, one hand on the doorknob already. "I should get going. Call me, John?"

Sherlock watched her out with a raise brow, and when the door closed, he turned sharply towards John. "You've had a lovely day off, I presume?" 

John snorted and stood, dusting crumbs off of his ratty old shirt, to which Sherlock curled and imperious lip and followed him to the kitchen. 

"You shouldn't treat Sarah the way you do," John admonished, curiously not as irritated by Sherlock's attitude at Sarah as he should have been, but regardless, the man was going to hear it either way. "She's my friend and you'll just have to get used to her being around."

Sherlock scoffed, folding his arms over his chest like a petulant child, rather than like the grown man with a considerable amount of wealth and influence. "Is that what friends do with one another these days," Sherlock enquired bitterly, "curl up for afternoon cuddles, John? Perhaps I might give that a try. Irene has been pestering me about watching some banal film I haven't the slightest interest in."

John swallowed down his heated retort at Sherlock's caustic reply. Sherlock was spoiling for a fight, but John wasn't going to give him one. "Do what you like," he murmured, washing out the cup he'd used earlier in the day. John felt the heat on his back before Sherlock even said a word. 

"How can you not see that she wants you," Sherlock spoke, his lips brushing the crown of John's head, and the intimacy of it stilled John's fingers. "You see, but you do not observe."

John turned so that they were chest-to-chest and Sherlock's face was solemn, though his eyes stood out like twin gems. Sapphire, as they always were when Sherlock was passionate about something. "You always say that," John griped, refusing to look away and the satisfaction gleaming in Sherlock's keen gaze made his skin tingle in that familiar way. "Not everyone has a thing for average blokes."

"Who said anything about average?" 

John grunted and pushed past Sherlock and to the tabloid that sat on the kitchen table, where it'd been since that morning. Looking at it made his chest clench, even then. "Have you read any of this yet?" John picked up the newspaper and the tabloid, waving them around briefly, before tossing them carelessly back onto the table.

Sherlock didn't even spare them a glance as he tapped away on his phone, leaning back on John's ugly counter top in his posh bespoke suit that curved along the sinewy lines of his long body. "No, and neither should you," Sherlock said, cool as you please. "Whatever it is, it's probably dull and unoriginal as they all are. Undoubtedly my PR team has already taken care of it."

The news should have raised his spirits, but John was confounded that the gravity of the situation was no weight on Sherlock's back. "Funny that," John ground out, the anger infusing his words with a poison he hadn't known was bubbling inside of him, "how none of this is bothering you at all. You're not the only one whose face was on that shit."

Sherlock did look up then, confusion carving a divot on the bridge if his nose. "You're upset."

"Bloody right I'm upset, Sherlock! I've spent all day wondering how I'm going to explain this one to the people who know me and _will_ ask about it. What am I supposed to say!" The words came out sharper than intended and Sherlock eyes hardened into cold steel at John's tone, defensive and cutting.

Sherlock carefully placed his phone on the counter and regarded John steadily. "You can tell them what you like, John. In fact, I'd like to know how you intend to explain that as well."

John growled in a moment of pure frustration, running both of his hands roughly through his unkempt hair. "Sherlock. No," he shook his head and looked up at the man across from him. "No, you're not going to do this right now. You're not going to turn _this_ on me." John jabbed a finger at the tabloid, wanting nothing more than to shove it in Sherlock's face and make him acknowledge it. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, finally breaking the stare. "It would be foolish of me to do such a thing, John. I'm merely curious as to how you would answer such an enquiry, considering that our arrangement is unconventional."

 _'Arrangement.'_ There was Sherlock Holmes' take on their relationship in a nutshell. An arrangement.

It stung more than John cared to admit, but isn't that what Sherlock told him, that relationships weren't his area? Maybe that was what bothered John more than all the other things, the tabloids and newspapers. It bothered him that there was no way he could answer their questions without coming to terms with the fact that all they had was sex. As much as it excited John, still excited him, it left a sour taste when John had to go home or sleep in an empty bed at 221B, because what Sherlock wanted from him didn't amount to more than a romp between the sheets and some power play, full stop. 

"Guess there's nothing to tell them, is there?" The words sounded hollow and wrong coming from his mouth, but John pushed away the sickening squeeze in his gut and plowed on. "I mean, relationships aren't your area, so what we do... I mean I'd just tell them it's a bit of fun. No harm done, no reputations ruined." 

It was wrong, so very very wrong, but John was angry and Sherlock's presence wasn't helping. He'd told himself not to get too attached, not to fall for Sherlock, because rela-

Sherlock was looming and John couldn't remember seeing the man move at all, but suddenly there was an inch of space between them and John couldn't be strong with Sherlock so close. 

"I don't find bluffing attractive and neither do you, so let's stop talking in riddles and cut to the heart of the matter." Sherlock's voice was low and smooth, but the efficiency of his words was ruthless and concise "If you feel that I've wronged or misled you in any way, then you should say so and quickly because I do not have the patience for talking in circles, nor did I come here to have a row."

John nodded and stepped back, putting distance between, because Sherlock and proximity never worked well for him. "Honesty," he chuckled, though there was no humour to be found in their situation, "you want honesty. Um- okay. How about I don't think this is going to work because relationships are not your area, but they are obviously mine."

Every word that tumbled from his lips left an acrid taste behind, and John wanted nothing more than to take them back. Sherlock only watched him with impenetrable, flinty eyes, offering no out for him. 

"Look, I like you, Sherlock, and I know that you're not offering what I want with you, so I'd rather save you the headache and me the heartache, understand?"

Sherlock was still regarding John with that unfathomable stare, and he would be lying if he said that it didn't unnerve him a bit. John wished he could know what Sherlock was thinking. It was pathetic and stupid of him to have agreed to Sherlock's conditions when he knew how often he wore his heart on his sleeve.

John shrugged, finishing his speech off with a weak, "So, yeah...", counterbalanced by an awkward head scratch. 

The moment passed in a silence so still, John nearly coughed to penetrate it, Sherlock was quicker. "You're an idiot."

"I- what?" 

"I said, you're. An. Idiot," Sherlock confirmed with a pointed emphasis on the 't'. 

John laughed in surprise, but Sherlock only glowered and the sound tapered off. "That's rich coming from you. Want to tell me why you think so?"

Sherlock shook his head in befuddlement and John's hackles raised at the condescension. "You're an idiot if you haven't realized we've passed this point eons ago," Sherlock stepped forward and grabbed John's face between his large hands. "You're not some passing fancy that I call for a fuck when I need it, and you were never that before. Before, when I said relationships weren't my area, I meant it and I still do. I'm horrible with sentiment and I hate people, but I _can't_ wrap my head around you, John. You are something else entirely, and I'd rather try with you than lose you and never know what it was like to have had you completely."

John's heart was beating too fast, but not fast enough, and altogether too slow. Arrhythmia. Sherlock Holmes would be the death of him, and then he would _really_ never know what having John was like because John would be dead from cardiac arrest. 

Sherlock wasn't faring much better, either. His cheeks were flushed and a bead of sweat escaped the fine tendrils of hair on Sherlock's temple. He resembled a man pronouncing a doomed fate, than one declaring the entirely human concept that he may possibly be falling for John.

"There's still so much I don't know about you, not enough data and for once, this is something I'd rather learn with time if it means you'll have to be with me in order to figure you out. So believe me when I say that any explanation you may try to provide about those pictures would be nowhere near the parameters of what we truly are. No, I'm not in love with you, nor have you reached that point with me, but given time - a lot of time - one day we may get there."

It wasn't a promise or declaration of love, but it was more than John had ever expected from Sherlock. The man seemed surprised with himself and John couldn't blame him. Who knew Sherlock could be so chatty?

"What would you have me say, then," John asked, the warmth from Sherlock's hands radiating through the skin of his cheeks, warming him. 

Sherlock smiled softly, crooked and charming and devoid of all the marble like quality it adopted during their row. "You care too much about what others think of you. What's between you and I, is and will always be between you and I." 

Well, John couldn't argue with that.

Sherlock pulled away and took his hand. "Come to bed with me.".

John sighed and attempted to tug his hand away, even as his stomach fluttered at the thought. "Sherlock, I'm _not_ having sex with you right now."

"Not for sex," Sherlock corrected, pulling John toward the hallway that led to his bedroom. "Not tonight."

The trip to the room was blessedly short, and for a bloke who spent all day in his jim-jams watching Doctor Who, John was exhausted, mentally and physically. He was still a bit caught up on the tabloid mess, but that would have to wait for another day. 

Sherlock was pulling off his suit coat the moment they passed the threshold of the bedroom, taking care to place it on a hanger and on the doorknob. 

"Take off your clothes," Sherlock ordered, raising a hand as John inhaled to argue. "No sex, as you said."

John sighed, but did as he was told. Everything came off, pants included, and Sherlock did the same until they were both stood naked and vulnerable before one another. John went to the bed first, followed closely by Sherlock, and lay on his side facing the other man. 

For a while they did nothing but observe one another, noting the things they usually missed in their haste to take each other apart. There was a mole just above Sherlock's brow that John wanted to kiss, and a few scattering his neck. His chest was pale and sparsely haired, small, pink nipples and a long torso that rivaled any Greek statue John had ever seen. 

Sherlock's hand reached out and sat patiently on the curve of John's hip, waiting for a further sign to proceed. It was marvelously thrilling to be touched in such a simple yet intimate way. Where there was usually passion and carnal desire in their previous intercourse, this was slow and hesitant, something to be remembered. This was everything that Sherlock didn't know how to be, but for John, he was trying.

John nodded, and Sherlock's hand moved upwards, following the natural line of John's body, the slope of his waist and the rocky hills of his bicep. 

John drew in a shaky breath as the hand moved to his chest and flattened against it, pushing him to lie on his back. Sherlock went with him so that he was hovering over John's body. With their bodies lined up like so, Sherlock's breath fell into synchronization with his own, exhaling on John's inhale, so it felt like something of Sherlock became a part of him. It was terrifying, this gradual deterioration of boundaries and rules and comprehension. 

Sherlock's lips traced a narrow path down the line of John's stomach, pausing to dip a curious tongue into his belly button before continuing. John flinched as those lips teased the jut of his hipbones, nothing more than a fleeting caress. Sherlock's curiosity led him further south, his aristocratic nose pressing into John's skin, inhaling and storing away information that John could only guess at. All the while, Sherlock's hands played a dangerous game, teetering on the edge between sensuality and sexuality. Wherever Sherlock placed his mouth, his hands were sure to follow, running and mapping, liquefying John beneath his capable fingers.

John sank back into the bed, boneless, until Sherlock came up to whisper "touch me," into his ear, so John returned the favor in kind as Sherlock lay on his side, bare for him. 

Sherlock's skin was all smooth lines and fleshy marble, and his eyes were blazing sapphires with flecks of emerald. His bare form held a sort of equine grace, hidden power beneath a deceptively lanky frame. Sherlock's thighs and calves were thin but well muscled like a cyclist and parted under John's inspection, his aroused member jutting out proudly from a thatch of light brown hairs. John skimmed over it briefly, watching as it twitched in reaction, before he continued his exploration.

There were hands everywhere and John was awed at the discovery that something as simple as touching could be so gratifying. They were both panting with arousal and the gravity of the moment, but Sherlock made it a point to avoid brushing against John's erection, and John gave him the same courtesy, though that didn't stop the wondering eyes and longing stares. 

Sherlock wanted to take him, but it wasn't that moment, and John didn't want to disturb whatever was happening between them because it was a new and fragile thing, easily rendered unavailing and cast aside. No, it had to be about more than the sex. 

John thought of the brevity of their time together, and how it seemed that they had know each other for longer, that their bodies were already familiar with each others touch. It was insane and John didn't want to think of what it would be like when they learned every inch of one another. Would that be the end of their story, when Sherlock finally wrapped his head around John and figured him out? 

John's hand followed this curvature of Sherlock's spine, the notches of his vertebrae and the expanse of smooth, pale flesh surrounding it. Sherlock was as close to perfection as John had ever come and it seemed impossible that the man would ever want anything to do with the likes of John. He'd long settled to the idea of living an ordinary life with an ordinary woman, because ordinary people attracted ordinary things. This time, John in all his ordinariness attracted someone extraordinary and he didn't think he would ever be able to revert back to the mundane. Even the sex was unconventional, and John wasn't going to be complaining about that. 

The mounds of Sherlock's arse were soft and plush under his touch, tight yet yielding and perfectly rounded. John pulled his hand away before his thoughts ventured towards dangerous territory and inhaled sharply as Sherlock grasped him round his back and pulled him forward until there was no space left between them. Their erections kissed and John couldn't withhold the tiny thrust at the contact, but Sherlock's hand stilled his hips, grounding him back into the moment.

Sherlock's eyes were a nearly translucent mix of blue-green-grey and as conflicted as John had ever seen them. Not for the first time that night, he wished he could hear what Sherlock was thinking but even following their shared exploration, he could see there was a part of him that Sherlock was not sharing. John may never get that part but that didn't mean he wasn't curious to know. Sherlock clearly had no idea what he was doing and everything concerning sentiment from that point forward would be that much more difficult, because a confused Sherlock Holmes was not a satisfied one.

Sherlock's eyes were glowing in that way that warned John where Sherlock's thoughts were headed, the way they flitted down to his lips and lingered, growing dark and desperate. Sex was what Sherlock knew, and surely it ate at him in the way John was familiar with, that he couldn't have what he wanted when he wanted it. Under that stare, John felt consumed, _was_ being consumed and there was no one that could hold the same power over him the way Sherlock did. 

The first kiss of the night was something different. Sherlock nipped and sucked at his lips and tongue until John was sweating under him, itching to give as good as he got and Sherlock repeated his tortuous machinations until John fought back. 

John pushed Sherlock back and climbed over him, straddling those narrow hips and Sherlock wasted no time with surprise, pulling John's head down so their lips could meet in a frenzy. John's hips were moving of their own accord, grinding against Sherlock's heat and Sherlock gloriously thrusting up to meet him until they were locked in a primitive dance. It didn't take long. They were still excited from the moment before, aching and on the brink, so when the climax came it was quick and powerful. 

Afterwards, John lay on his side and Sherlock on the other, cleaning himself off with John's shirt and tossing it to John who did the same before throwing it somewhere in the room. 

"Does that qualify as sex?" John was the first to speak, his voice rough and ragged.

Sherlock turned his head to John, lips twitching near the corners as he held back a smile. "I believe so, yes."

John rolled his eyes. "Bugger. Can't even follow my own rule," he swore.

When minutes passed and Sherlock still hadn't left the bed, John glanced over, his heart skipping a beat in his chest. Sherlock was still awake, but barely. He was watching John with heavily-lidded, tired eyes, the blue-green-grey partly shrouded in a curtain of dark lashes. 

John, unsure what to do, swallowed and stared back. He' never seen Sherlock that way, sleepy and pliable, more vulnerable than ever. How could John see that and walk away one day if he had to? 

"Come here," Sherlock told him, his words careful and quiet as if he wasn't sure of himself. He probably wasn't, but John didn't give him a chance to change his mind. He scooted forward until his nose came to the hollow of Sherlock's chest. He smelled like sex and John. "Go to sleep."

John snickered, "Yes, mummy dearest."

"Shut up."

"Right-o."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like what you see? Join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates, excerpts and more Sherlock-y things! Feedback is much appreciated and highly motivational!


	13. The Day Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John spends his Saturday with Sherlock and meets some interesting characters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly filibuster, haha! I know a lot of my chapters with John and Sherlock are mostly sexual exchanges, so I wanted to do this one a little different. Mainly fluff and banter!

Jesus, John was so sore...

And why the hell was it so fucking warm?

The weight on his body was sticky and sprawled heavily over his back and sides like a bloody Sloth. Besides which, there was constant underlying rattle of wood pulling John from the grasping fingers of a deep slumber, born of absolute exhaustion. 

Okay, so midnight shags were not good for his morning regimen. 

The lump of flesh on John's back emitted a soft groan and rolled away, allowing the crisp air to settle sharply on his skin. The sweat rapidly chilled and John sighed into his pillow. Better.

_Bam! Bam! Bam!_

"John, are you alright in there, mate? I heard you yelling last night." Mike. His voice was muffled through the door, but his worry was clear. John was torn between guilt and a hate so strong he had actually begun to wake up. 

_Bam! Bam! Bam!_ "One minute, then I'm coming in!" John had no doubts the intrusive bastard would make good on that threat. 

Next to him, Sherlock shifted again in a jerky movement of limbs that alerted John that a tantrum was possibly imminent if Mike didn't stop pounding soon. Then he remembered that he hadn't told Mike about Sherlock, and his flatmate was actually home for once, and also, Sherlock was naked. In his bed. Oh, and the room smelled like sex. 

Bugger.

John gasped and sat up quickly enough that the room began to spin from the sudden downward rush of blood. He waited until the lazy spiraling dispelled and quickly dressed in the nearest thing, which just so happened to be Sherlock's overly tight dress shirt, which he left unbuttoned because Mike had already seen him naked enough times that he knew about the Crane-shaped birthmark on the back of his thigh. He threw on the pyjama bottoms he wore yesterday and went to the door just as the doorknob began to rattle.

"Mike," John grumbled, eyeing his friend who looked too awake for whatever-the-fuck o' clock. " _What_?" 

Mike grinned, his relief obvious, and John felt the slightest bit like an arse for being rude to his friend who he hadn't seen much of in the past week. "I thought maybe you went to the pub and brought back a wild one," Mike chuckled, though John was now intensely aware of Sherlock's keen hearing and his thoughts on John with anyone else. 

_'Dear Jesus, Mike!'_

And as if on cue, Mike's eyes widened comically - well, it would be comical if John didn't know that Mike was probably receiving a death stare the likes of which he'd never experienced before - and cut himself off mid-chuckle. 

John felt the pressure of Sherlock against his back, the prickle of fine hairs along his arms standing up in reaction as heat crept up the nape of his neck. There was absolutely no way that he was going to turn back and acknowledge the tosser positively looming over him like some great bloody shadow. 

"John. Pinch me, John," Mike whispered, not tearing his eyes away from Sherlock. 

John bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, praying for patience and the will to resist jamming his foot back into Sherlock's nosy cock. God, help him. 

"No, Mike, I'm- I'm not going to pinch you. This is real, this is all real, God help us."

"Slap my bum and call me Sally-"

John could feel Sherlock's muscles tense and recoil, and imagined the grimace of disgust as Sherlock bit out, "I'd rather not, thank you." Of course, Mike hadn't even paused once, and probably didn't hear.

"- Sherlock Holmes is in my flat!"

"Erm, Mike? Could you maybe," John scratched the back of his head, "possibly come back later?"

"I mean wow," Mike smiled widely, folding his arms over his chest and hunkering down like he was going nowhere at all. John thought about closing the door in his face. "I mean, I didn't know you and John were... well, you know," Mike stammered.

Sherlock went completely still behind him, and John knew that didn't bode well for anyone involved. "No, I _don't_ know. Enlighten me."

John, having had about enough of the semantics, reared his arm back and straight into Sherlock's abdomen. Not too hard, mind. Sherlock was a tetchy one.

"Ouch, John," Sherlock stated obnoxiously (loudly), though it conveyed irritation more than any real pain. 

John swiveled, where Sherlock was rubbing his stomach like a cat licking their wounds, and John couldn't resist the heavy eye roll he'd been holding back since the beginning of this ridiculously awkward moment.

"Sherlock, _you're_ a drama queen, and Mike," John swung around to where his friend's eyes were just snapping back up, a flush of embarrassed horror creeping up at the sight of Sherlock's genitals flapping about. The wanker hadn't even bothered to wear clothes. "Give us a mo' and then you can ask Sherlock all the questions you want."

Quickly, before Mike could respond, John closed the door and put his back to it, narrowing his gaze on the poncy git sprawled over the end of his bed. Even in his frustration, John found the long lines of Sherlock's body outrageously arousing. Sherlock made laziness into an art, the spread of his body against John's crummy sheets, the contrast of his dark hair against the pillow; he was beautiful, and when he opened his eyes and looked back at John, he knew it, too. 

Vivid blue eyes tracked his movement all the way to the bed, where he sat beside Sherlock's body, a finger moving unhurriedly over the expanse of skin on Sherlock's stomach, scraping flakes of dried semen that he was sure was uncomfortable. Sherlock watched him all the while. When Sherlock sat up, John's gut pulled indescribably, and as if he'd been beckoned, Sherlock leaned forward and captured his lips. John tilted his head and pressed forward, balancing his weight on his hands and knees as he opened his mouth up to Sherlock's devotion.

Sherlock's tongue was soft and velvety, and though they both suffered from a case of bad morning breath, John enjoyed the moment anyway. Sherlock sat up and John went with him, until they were both knelt on the bed, hands tracing the contours of hips and shoulders, running through bed tangled hair and bite marks. John pulled away, panting and overwhelmed, because Sherlock Holmes was an overwhelming presence and his snogging game was pro level. 

He turned away, and Sherlock's nose bumped against his cheek, rubbing back and forth absently. It was startlingly intimate and after the events of the night before, like a sweet reassurance. 

"I want to take you back to 221C," Sherlock whispered without elaboration, and John didn't need him to expand on it, because they only ever went to 221C when Sherlock wanted to be the worst of himself, the darkest part of himself. John shivered. He wanted it, too. Sherlock kissed him again, his tongue darting provocatively past John's lips and into his mouth, and this time it held more bite and less patience. It was an oral exhibition of the things Sherlock wanted to do to him, and John was _ready_. "Later," Sherlock promised, and John had no doubts that Sherlock would fulfill it.

They pulled away and John gathered their clothes off the floor, tossing Sherlock's into his face where he'd resumed his Sloth sprawl at the end of the bed. "Get up, you lazy berk, let's get cleaned up."

"Leave me be, John. I have no engagements today, why should I move?" Sherlock was pouting - no, _seriously_ pouting - and John laughed, going to ruffle Sherlock's monstrous hair. Sherlock swatted at his hand and sat up, glaring furiously at the younger man currently two breaths away from doubling over at the grown man behaving so childishly. " _What_ is so funny," Sherlock growled, his hand going self-consciously up to his hair, rearranging the nest of curls into a further mess. John couldn't help it; he laughed harder. 

John gestured to his own hair with a finger, referring to the tuft of hair that dangled perilously suspended over Sherlock's forehead. 

"Oh, _shut up_ ," Sherlock snarled, and threw a pillow straight into John's open mouth before getting up and stomping out of the room in absolutely nothing.

John held the pillow, his laughs fading away at last. Okay, so maybe that wasn't a very nice thing to do, laughing at Sherlock the way he had, but John was never the type to take life or himself too seriously. Of course Sherlock wouldn't think the same way. 

Sighing, John tossed the pillow on the bed and emerged out into the hallway. In the bathroom, John could hear the shower going and Mike in the other room talking to Kate on his phone. Bathroom it was, then.

His tiny shower seemed too small for Sherlock and the peeling paint was embarrassing to look at, knowing that this was poor living in Sherlock's eyes. Poor he was, but he was a uni-going-med student, and it was a comfort to know that the lifestyle he lived then was only temporary. Being a surgeon would pay for his school debt and provide John with a comfortable living. 

John shed his clothes and slid into the shower, though there was barely enough room to move and Sherlock didn't provide any accommodations. The droplets of water ricocheting off of Sherlock's body combined with the frigid air of the bathroom left John huddled in the corner hoping that Sherlock didn't use all of the hot water. As tantalizing as it was having an unhindered view of Sherlock's wet, naked body, John's bollocks were nearly shriveled.

After two minutes, John had about enough and shoved his way awkwardly between Sherlock and the wall, and inserted himself under the spray, sighing happily as the warm water hit his skin. Sherlock protested, but John tuned him out and scrubbed his body down quickly, turning to throw Sherlock a playful smirk. 

Yep, there was that tug at the corner of Sherlock's lip, and John knew he had him. 

-

"So you two are... together? Like, _together together_?"

Mike had asked that question no less than four times since they'd joined him in the kitchen, and Sherlock grimaced into his tea from where he leaned against the counter, trying hard not to deduce Mike to within an inch of his life. John could see his lip twitch, on the edge of spewing out something venomous every time that Mike repeated himself. 

As for himself, John was rapidly losing patience. 

Before John could say something that could potentially be stupid and thoughtless, Sherlock cut in. "As stimulating as I find this dull little interrogation to be, John and I have prior engagements, if you don't mind."

John turned in his chair and regarded Sherlock with a bemused glare. "But you said-"

"It slipped my mind," Sherlock murmured between tight lips, bringing up his cup of tea for another sip, the sly bastard. "Not that you had anything planned to begin with, and as much as I would enjoy an entire day spent in bed with you, this is an urgent matter."

' _Urgent?_ ' 

"Yes, urgent. We have an appointment we have to keep, and you are still my personal assistant, are you not?"

"Hey, stop reading my mind, and it _is_ the weekend if I'm not mistaken."

In his peripheral, John could see Mike slowly edging out of the kitchen and although John felt that he should acknowledge his friend, he couldn't pull his gaze away from the glimmer of glee and satisfaction in Sherlock's pale eyes. He was enjoying their banter and John, for all the protest he put up, was just as thoroughly engrossed in their back and forth. 

Then there was the flicker of something gaping and hungry in the way Sherlock regarded him. John couldn't even begin to fathom what Sherlock was thinking, but he was sure it skirted along the usual lines of pleasure and pain, and the sweet, sweet depravity of it all. 

Sherlock blinked, and it was gone, tucked back into the corners of his mind that John would die to get a glimpse of. He'd been shut out.

"Well then, if you're quite finished, I believe we have appointment to make."

-

The ride wasn't long and they were well on their way when the houses began to grow less shabby and larger, grand and immaculate. John had only been to the Royal Borough of Kensington a few times in his life, and each time, he was astounded by the old, fancy buildings and the people that screamed 'money'. Sure Sherlock could easily have another flat in Kensington, but for a man whose net worth was well into the realm of millions, Sherlock didn't seem the type to waste money on trinkets and a lavish lifestyle. So what was Sherlock up to, and why had he brought John there?

A short time later, the driver pulled the car to the kerb in front of a row of Edwardian style buildings. Although most were refurbished, the buildings held an authentic look with rustic bricks and wooden porches. The large bay windows were picturesque and John could just see inside some of the flats, how large and cavernous they were. They all looked exactly the same from where he stood. 

Sherlock was out first and John followed, just barely keeping up with Sherlock's long-legged strides. The pavement was tended to and spotless, not a piece of trash in sight and John reveled at the cleanliness of the streets. He was so far away from his world and trudging behind Sherlock into parts unknown. 

Sherlock lead them to a door with ornate numbering, a golden border of vines and filigree surrounding the numbers 319. Sherlock grabbed the heavy brass knocker and dropped it three times against the door.

"... ou lazy sod, I can always count on you to make me your butler for the day! Hold on, you, I'm coming!"

The door opened to a beautiful woman with chestnut skin, a bright row of gleaming teeth and large, brown eyes framed by thick lashes. Her hair was cut close to her head, but it highlighted her sculptured cheekbones and the strong shape of her jaw. 

Sherlock greeted her warmly. "Hello Ella," he said, leaning in as she did, to place a light kiss on her cheek. 

Ella smiled brilliantly as she pulled away, her bright eyes taking Sherlock in with glee. "Well, this is a turn up," she grinned, and glanced at John, her smile growing wider. "And I see you've got yourself a young man."

"Ah yes. John, meet Ella Thompson. Ella, John Watson."

The woman stepped forward to shake his hand warmly, all the while chastising Sherlock. "That's Ella _Trevor_ -Thompson, thank you very much. I'm quite attached to my family name."

Ella pulled away from the door to let them in, and John nearly dropped his jaw in wonder. 

The inside was a modernist's dream. The Edwardian appeal ended at the door as the inside had been completely gutted and revamped. The furniture was all curvy shapes, soft beige and eggshell whites, warm colors that John preferred to the colourless finish at Holmes Pharmaceuticals. The walls were replete with abstract pieces and artfully placed nude bodies. The flooring was cherry wood, glossed to perfection, so much so, that John could see his reflection. 

"If you're looking for my wayward brother, he's been closed up in the studio for weeks now. London Fashion Week was a success for him, so he's been working day and night on commissions. I've more or less been relegated to a secretarial position."

Ella lead them through a hall, where the walls had been knocked down and replaced with glass. The pictures changed from nude bodies to black and white snapshots of models posing in custom designs. 

They entered into a room with racks and racks of clothing, a changing screen fitted into the corner of the room and a table messy with drawn designs and ideas scribbled in pencil. At the desk sat a man with the same rich brown skin as Ella and a similar strong jaw structure. His hair was twisted into locks that sat high on his head as he bent over the table, pulling fabric through a sewing machine. The man's glanced up at them and the creases on his forehead smoothed out upon seeing Sherlock. 

"Ella, who's this stranger you've let into my home," he asked, chuckling as he stood to cross the room. His voice was deep and sonorous, amused but genteel.

Sherlock smiled gamely and allowed himself to be embraced by the other man graciously. "Victor," he greeted, pulling back with a small smirk. "Busy as always, I see."

Victor's eyes softened in a familiar way that made John's stomach clench as he stood off to the side. He didn't have Sherlock's gift for deduction, but he certainly wasn't blind. Sherlock often handled physical contact in a way one would expect him to, as he wasn't fond of being touched by anyone unless he initiated the contact, but with Victor, he didn't even blink. Thankfully, Sherlock had no such compunctions when it came to John, also. 

"Ah, and you've brought a young man," Victor turned, his lips curling gently at the corners, showcasing a pair of dimples that gave him a boyish look. "Well, don't be shy, I'm not half an arse as this gent," he said, cocking his head towards Sherlock. He held out a hand. "Victor Trevor, at your service."

"John Watson," John introduced himself, taking Victor's hand in a firm grip. As they let go, Victor cast his eyes down John's front with a critical eye, though his face didn't lose any of its gentleness. "You're quite fit. I could do a lot with _you_."

Sherlock cleared his throat and turned to John for what seemed like the first time since they walked through the door. "Victor is a designer, which should be obvious to you if you haven't already observed," Sherlock explained, not unkindly. "I commission him for my wardrobe, mostly. We attended Cambridge together, after which he moved to the States for a time."

"New York," Victor clarified, his dark eyes growing nostalgic. "Not exactly delightful, but perfect for my career, if you will. Now, I'm assuming your John will be needing a new wardrobe?"

John turned his head sharply to glare at Sherlock, and of course, the git was studiously avoiding his gaze. "I don't know, Sherlock. Will I be needing a new wardrobe?"

Sherlock raised his nose higher into the air, looking more like a peacock with ruffled feathers. His cheeks bloomed pink and John had the ridiculous urge to see how much darker he could make Sherlock blush. "Yes, John will be needing evening wear, as well as a casual work suit and a few dress shirts."

John sputtered and glared some more, because Sherlock was most certainly _not_ going to _dress_ him. " _I'm_ sorry, did I miss the part where we actually discussed this first?"

"There is no discussion to be had, John. Think of it as uniform for your position. I can't have you wearing clothes like _that_ ," Sherlock emphasized with his hands, gesturing towards John's plaid button down and denims, "while representing my company."

" _What_ , Sherlock, there is nothing wrong with what I've got on. It's the _weekend_."

"Well, he _does_ have a point," Victor cut in sheepishly. "Those shoes aren't cutting it, full stop. You have a lovely build, a broad chest and perfectly symmetrical shoulders, but that shirt is doing nothing for you." Victor dashed back to his cluttered desk and grabbed a roll of tape measure. "I am going to have so much fun with you. Arms out, my dear."

For the next half hour, Victor took his measurements and held up strips of fabric against his skin and eyes, occasionally scribbling down notes. Between staring with the acuity of a predator, Sherlock would insert a suggestion here and there, one arm folded over his chest while the other arm was set perpendicular, his hand absently stroking his chin. Sherlock and Victor talked over his head with the familiarity of old friends, and surprisingly, John found that besides his initial suspicion, he wasn't jealous. Victor made it hard to dislike him, and although he spoke his thoughts freely, John enjoyed his candour.

Ella came in a short while later with a tray of tea and biscuits and the four of them retired to the sitting room. It wasn't long before Sherlock and Victor were breaking off to have their own conversation, and Ella was showing him the rest of the flat. 

When there was nothing left to show, they set a slow pace back to the foyer. "Well, I have to be honest. You're not quite what I was expecting in regards to Sherlock's tastes."

John bristled slightly, but Ella's tone was still amicable and well-intentioned. "What I mean to say is," she stopped and turned, placing both of her hands on John's arms, "he usually goes for the broody, high maintenance type, which Victor and I despaired of, of course. He's brought some real nasty ones round, but they're never round for very long. Sherlock has never been one for relationships, I'm sure he's told you. Everyone gets that disclaimer."

John wasn't sure why she was telling him all of this, but he hoped she would get to the point quickly, because John definitely did not want to hear about Sherlock's past conquests. Ella released him, only to link her arm through his and continued their slow pace forward. 

"Our Sherlock seems quite fond of you, must be if he is bringing you here. He rarely ever brings anyone round, and never looks at them the way I've spotted him looking at you." She pauses briefly. "Just do me a favor and keep an eye on him. Victor and I used to, but then... things changed, so..." Ella sighed wistfully.

John didn't know how to reassure her, could barely even reassure himself that the tenuous thing he had with Sherlock would last. Her words were wary, however, and John wondered what in Sherlock's past had made her so. 

"Don't know much about you, but you seem like a good fellow," she said, flashing him a brilliant smile.

John shrugged and returned her gesture. "I'm not perfect, but to be honest, I don't know a person who is."

Ella chuckled. "I don't care a wit for perfection, my friend, and so you have my gratitude for your honesty, dear."

"John."

At the mouth of the hallway, Sherlock watched them approach, more relaxed than John was used to seeing him, and just as before, a tendril of envy unraveled in his gut. John wanted to make Sherlock look like that, alone.

When they were close enough to touch, Ella let him go and John went to stand by Sherlock, surprised when the man placed a possessive hand on the small of his back. "John and I must be on our way," Sherlock stated by way of explanation. "We have a reservation to keep."

Of course they did, John thought blandly, because Sherlock has dominated his Saturday. 

Ella reached up to peck Sherlock on the cheek and did the same for John, to his pleasant surprise. "Bring him round again, soon. We'll make it a proper get together," she said, pointing a stern finger at Sherlock, who shrugged noncommittally. 

Victor saw them out the door, smiling mischievously at John behind Sherlock's back, and sent him a thumbs up. John laughed and Sherlock turned to him quizzically, but despite his thoughts on the matter, Sherlock didn't have to know _everything_. 

When they were seated comfortably in the back seat of the car, John angled his body towards Sherlock and watched as the man tapped away on his phone. "So, where to?"

"Tesco."

"Wha- Tesco?"

" _Yes_ , Tesco, John. Must I repeat myself to you constantly?"

John stared at him accusingly. "You said a reservation!"

Sherlock smiled, "Yes, I reserved time out of my normally busy schedule to take you back to Baker Street. You will cook us dinner and make tea," he replied imperiously.

"Oh, would you like me to clean your house, too," John snapped derisively.

"Yes."

"No, you _twat_ , I am _not_ cooking for you, I'm not making you tea, and I'm sure as hell not cleaning that death trap you call a flat!".

"You will," Sherlock intoned serenely, as if John didn't have a choice. Well, the hell with that!

"The only way I'm cooking anything is if you help." There, John put his foot down and Sherlock could take it or leave it. By the incredulous grimace taking hold of his aristocratic features, John didn't see that happening.

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't _cook_ , John," he stated, as if it were beneath him, which John would bet his life that was exactly what the prick was thinking. 

"Then I guess you won't be eating." With that, John angled his body away, signaling that the conversation was closed to further inspection.

The rest of the ride went by in a tense silence until the driver pulled the car up to the kerb at Tesco. Sherlock was first out, and then John until they were both stood awkwardly just to the side of the market doors, locked in a stubborn stalemate.

Finally, Sherlock huffed and muttered between clenched teeth, "Fine, I will help you, but know this: I'm agreeing because _I_ want to, and not any emotional manipulation on your part." Then he swung into the store, his bat cape swirling out behind him. Drama queen. 

-

Let it be said that Sherlock Holmes was not a shopper and anyone who said so obviously did not have eyes. 

Sherlock flitted from shelf to shelf, throwing random items into the cart without even a second glance to see what he was contributing. None of it had anything to do with a meal, and all of it was junk. 

"Sherlock, do you really need so much jam," John asked, after watching Sherlock throw a third bottle of strawberry jam in the cart. 

Sherlock turned and glared haughtily. "Yes, John, I like jam on my toast. Problem?"

John surrendered with hands raised. "Nope, not a bit."

In between deciding what they wanted to make for dinner, John and Sherlock bickered like an old, married couple. It was all actually quite fun. 

Checking out was _hell_. For one, Sherlock handed John his card and darted off to inspect the tobacco brands, leaving John to fight with the stupid chip and PIN machine. Why?! What did John do to deserve a man-child and a dodgy machine!

To make things worse, Sherlock, tired of waiting, took over and got it in one try. If that didn't sour his mood, then the cougar with the large breasts ringing them up began to blatantly flirt with Sherlock. Great. Of course, Sherlock didn't even look at her. 

The entire time, John kept one eye on their surroundings, ever-conscience of a pap lurking somewhere, taking pictures of them together. Fortunately, Sherlock's word was as good as gold. Not a tabloid was in site with their faces plastered on it, thanks to Sherlock's PR team. He didn't question it, didn't really want to know _how_ Sherlock kept the media mum, but it put John at ease that Sherlock had the power to do something about it. God knows John doesn't have any kind of money to be bribing journalists. 

It was well past the afternoon when they arrived at 221 Baker Street. The flat had been tidied since the last time John was there, which he assumed was Mrs Hudson's doing. 

After the groceries were sorted, John rolled up his sleeves and turned to Sherlock with a devious smile. "So, shall we begin?"

-

An hour later, they were sitting in front of empty cartons of Chinese food, because John overcooked the noodles, too distracted with snogging Sherlock. Sherlock added too much seasoning to the spaghetti sauce, and they were too both busy giggling like schoolgirls to notice the smell of burning bread in the oven. 

All-in-all, it was brilliant and John couldn't remember a time when he'd laughed more. 

It was at the end of one of Sherlock's anecdotes about a case he'd taken for the Yard that John noticed they'd been moving closer and closer to one another, like iron to magnets. John had noticed Sherlock would drift sometimes, the way his pale eyes would flicker upward to 221C and then to John, searching, burning. Sherlock was barely restraining himself, and the sexual energy radiating off of him in pulses said as much. 

Sherlock licked his lips and John mirrored the action, unable to tear his eyes away from Sherlock's plush mouth. The only sound was their collective breathing and the drone of the telly, but nothing to tamp down on the rise of their lust. 

This was nothing like the night before, where the sex had been soft and passionate. John didn't see soft and brittle emotions in Sherlock's gaze anymore. It was the promise of pain and pleasure, primal lust and rough sex. That was the side Sherlock only showed John glimpses of throughout the day, the flickering flame that never died, the side of Sherlock that always lurked just beneath. That was the man that would take John upstairs, strip him, debase him, and then dominate him. 

The thought made his breath stutter and his stomach quiver. 

Sherlock slid over the gap between them on the couch and invaded every space John made the mistake of thinking as his own, and captivated him. 

_'Yes,'_ John thought, _'yes, this is what I need.'_

Do it, John wanted to goad Sherlock, wished he would move already, but the other man's gaze was steady and calculating. What was he waiting for? 

Sherlock loomed, an oppressive presence in body and mind. He waited, pinning John with his sharp eyes, unfathomable. 

'No, _you_ do it', Sherlock's eyes seemed to say. 

What?

What?

_What?_

Oh...

Keeping his eyes locked with Sherlock's, John slid down off the couch and onto his knees, and something in Sherlock's shoulders released. There he was, doing something he never in a million years would have thought of doing a month ago.

John shuffled forward until he was properly settled in the 'V' of Sherlock's legs, leaning back on his haunches, his hands crossed obediently over the small of his back. 

His heart beat out a quick, stilted rhythm and John realized that although that wasn't the first time he'd been on his knees for Sherlock, he felt more afraid than he had before. In the beginning, there were no expectations from Sherlock, just the surety that all he wanted was someone to warm his bed and submit to his...baser needs. Now, there was more at stake and the very real possibility that Sherlock's emotions for him ran deeper than he let on. 

Sherlock's face was a blank slate, but his eyes glowed with satisfaction and pride, jumping past passionate sapphire to an inflamed celadon. 

Do it, John thought, and issued his challenge with a slight tilt of his jaw.

Sherlock smiled.

_Yes. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Smut. Maybe some angst... maybe. This story has a mind of its own. Anyways, follow me on [tumblr](http://lympadei.tumblr.com) for updates, occasional excerpts and lots of Johnlock!


	14. The Words Unspoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Scene occurs, and John realizes some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly smut. Okay, pretty much over 5K words of smut. You have been warned.

John recanted his earlier opinion on Sherlock's fingers. They were not thin or bony, nor were Sherlock's fingers delicate. That opinion swiftly changed when John felt said fingers for the first time, stretching him open, loosening him to allow room for something much larger. 

Sherlock's fingers were long and pale, wide and rounded at the tips, John could feel them pressing against the gland inside of him that made his toes curl in inordinate pleasure. He'd nearly forgotten that the thrill and excitement of the moment wasn't the reason that his feet weren't touching the ground. 

No, Sherlock wanted to take him higher and keep him there, teetering, although in a more literal sense. Sherlock called it suspension bondage. John called it, "Oh, _bloody_ fucking hell!". 

After John's presentation in the sitting room of 221B, Sherlock didn't waste time on words or frivolous gestures that would only prolong the inevitable. He'd stood, offered a hand to John, and pulled him up the stairs to 221C where things progressed rather heatedly. 

When the door to 221C closed, it was the beginning of a new phase of their burgeoning whatever-it-could-be-called. Sherlock had crowded John, backed him up until there was nowhere to go. Between the man before him and the wall behind him, both were immovable and John felt his pulse ratchet up to a dangerously rapid pace. 

Then, Sherlock was kissing him, toying with the buttons of John's plaid shirt as their tongues tangled for dominance. Sherlock tilted his head and pushed forward, enough to cancel out the desolate space between them. It was not the light and airy kisses of that morning; it was hard and sloppy, teeth clacking, wet lips and sharp nips. 

_'Yes,'_ John wanted to say, wanted to push Sherlock on his back over the bare floor, climb over his supine body and sink down on the erection pressed against his navel. 

The metallic taste of iron lingered on his lips when Sherlock pulled away. John watched Sherlock watching him as his tongue darted out to find the source of the taste, observed as those pupils dilated and eclipsed the iris until only a sliver of that vivid pale remained. 

John's pelvis had begun to press forward, responding to the subtle rotation of Sherlock's hips, the constant pressure of Sherlock's covered erection insistently pushing against him. 

Sherlock's hands were on him, round him, one pushing the shirt off his shoulders while the other gracefully undid the button on his denims. All the while, his mouth descended once more and refused to let up. John could feel the tickle of Sherlock's breath against his cheeks as he breathed rapidly through his nose, just as John did, exhilarated by the proximity of their heated bodies, the imminence of a joining that would be no less than spectacular. It was brilliant and welcomed, and John didn't want that moment to expire even if the world came crashing down at their feet. 

Sherlock's fingers were impatient as he hooked them on the waistband of John's denims and pants and pushed down, relieving him of his constraints all in one go. When he pulled away, Sherlock's eyes pinned John in place with the force of gravity, wide-eyed and wild, beautiful red lips swollen to supple rosebuds that hypnotised him. John couldn't breathe until Sherlock broke the eye contact to run his gaze down John's bared body; the peak of his nipples, the heave of his chest, the swell of John's prick cradled in Sherlock's firm hand. 

Sherlock wasn't much for talking during sex, and neither was John. He preferred the intimacy of throaty moans and broken sighs, would rather allow their bodies to communicate where words weren't necessary. At that moment, however, John wanted to hear Sherlock speak to him, listen to that lovely baritone flow through him like a fine brandy, intoxicate him. 

As always, Sherlock read John like a book and played his body like a sonata. Despite being fully clothed in one of his tight, silk shirts and tailored trousers, Sherlock gracefully slid to his knees, until his lips were level with John's erection. When he spoke, his swollen lips brushed the tip of John's cock, the wave of humidity from Sherlock's warm breath causing a flare of warmth to ignite at the base of his abdomen. 

"Look at you, so close already, I can feel your balls drawing up," Sherlock said, his voice low and breathy, then planted a soft kiss on the head of John's cock, where it peeked from beneath his foreskin. "You won't get to come until I've fucked you properly."

John nearly lost his struggle to stay standing on weak knees when Sherlock's tongue darted out to lick the sheen of pre-ejaculate on the tip of his cock. "Or I could make you come now," Sherlock hummed, moving his transfixed gaze from John's pearly erection and up to meet liquid cobalt eyes. Sherlock smiled tightly, his jaw tensed in restraint. "Though that would come with a heavy price. Are you willing to risk it, John, willing to be at my mercy for however long I wish you to be? Delayed gratification or instant satisfaction?" 

John's resolve melted like butter at Sherlock's tempting words and decadent tone, the skim of his lips atop the underside of John's erection. John felt wanton and hot, wanted Sherlock to lay him down and split his thighs, sink his filthy tongue inside of him. "Sh-Sherlock," he groaned, resisting the urge to dig his fingers in that crown of curls and pull. 

"Either option is satisfactory. Here, I'll be able to taste you, fuck you with my fingers until your come is spilling down my throat," Sherlock paused, mouth open as he rested his forehead against John's pelvic bone, panting, before the weight of his stare was back, more weighted than before. Sherlock's pale eyes were laden with more than lust, a murky blue pool that reflected unfathomable desires and a man near the end of his restraint. "If you should decide to wait, I'll ensure you are _well_ rewarded."

Without waiting for an answer, Sherlock opened his mouth and swallowed John's cock until John could feel it pressed against the back of his throat. John cried out, a loud, keen sound that rang sharp in the otherwise quiet room, save for the slick noise of Sherlock's mouth moving wetly over his erection. 

The only thing keeping John's knees from buckling were hands pressing dents into his hips and arse tight enough to bruise. Below him, Sherlock's lips were a relentless hold round his cock, dragging back and forth, a venturing tongue pressed against the ridge of John's erection. Sherlock's eyes were closed, but John had no doubts that the man was cataloging every moment, planning his next attack on John's body. 

Sherlock's fingers were embedded in his arse, growing tighter as John groaned louder and louder, attempting to stave off an impending orgasm, but Sherlock lips were a godsend, and those beautiful eyes were watching John, now. It felt impossible to keep himself from coming when all of Sherlock's unwavering attention was on him, red lips pulling off the head of John's cock right at the precipice. Somehow, he managed it, but it was just as well that Sherlock smiled mystically, and pulled something from his pocket. 

Without the support of Sherlock's hands to keep him standing, John slid down the wall, drunk on a cocktail of chemicals he could even begin to list in his addled state. That left him sitting on his bare arse on a cold floor, his legs splayed open rather suggestively on either side of Sherlock's trim body. Every muscle in his body strained with tension, led by the ache in his cock, the desire to spill his seed down Sherlock's ridiculously receptive throat. 

"My good boy," Sherlock praised, and the rumble of his voice was enough to have John's hip twitching towards the sound. Sherlock staid him with a firm hand pressed against John's lower abdomen, the other stretching a rubber cock ring round the base of his cock. When he was finished, Sherlock sat back and appraised John with keen, gleeful eyes, one hand moving to massage the hardness straining against his own trousers. "The ring won't stop you from having an orgasm, but it will prolong your experience," Sherlock assured him. Dark lashes fluttered against blush-stained cheeks, Sherlock's eyelids drooping low as he watched John struggle to stay in control, keep his desires at bay. It was near impossible with Sherlock staring at him in that manner. Sherlock was losing the battle with his own needs. 

"If you haven't already observed, I've added a few additions to our room," said Sherlock, flapping a hand casually towards the room. John tried not show how much his heart soared at the word 'our', but the pleasure was a warm, nestling thing in his gut. 

It hadn't been all that long since he'd last been in 221C, but it was enough time to see that Sherlock had installed a steel bar that hung from the ceiling, fitted with two cuffs on each side of the bar. Though the bar should have been, by far, the most puzzling addition to the room, John found his attention pulled to the other side of the room. Where there should have been drab, Victorian wallpaper, it had been replaced with a row of floor to ceiling mirrors that spanned the width of the entire wall. 

His reflection stared back at him, unkempt blond strands, an unrefined slump against the wall and wide, wandering blue eyes. Sherlock had moved to his side, no longer hovering over John, but close enough that John could feel the warmth radiating from Sherlock's clothed body. Sherlock met his gaze in their reflection, heady and sloe-eyed. 

"Sherlock," John breathed, excited. There was a tremor building up inside of him, not outwardly noticeable, but voracious and uncontrollable like a wildfire. Tendrils of flames licked at his insides, igniting him. 

Sherlock pushed himself off the floor and held out a hand to John, a placid smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "Do you trust me, John?"

The answer was instantaneous, involuntary. "Of course I-"

" _Do you trust me_?" This time, Sherlock's question was insistent and grave, beseeching. Something in his tone made John freeze, the urgency of Sherlock's query. The tremors grew steadily. 

Sherlock's gaze had grown shrewd and assessing. It was at the tip of his tongue to say yes, but Sherlock's eyes begged him to think, to stow away his impulse to please and answer honestly. 

If John were being honest with himself, he'd been asking himself the very same thing and never did find an answer that was satisfactory. Sherlock hadn't lied to him or done anything untoward to John, and he always made it a point to ease John into every new experience, but was that really what Sherlock was asking him? 

No.

Sherlock was aware that John trusted him with his body, or else he would have drawn the line. Sherlock wanted to know if John trusted him with more than his body; did John trust him with his mind, emotions? His heart?

Not yet, but he could try. 

"I... I trust you with this, Sherlock," John responded, keeping his voice light and submissive, allowing Sherlock to see that whatever he wanted to do to him, John trusted that he would come out of it sated and with peace of mind. "Whatever you want, Sherlock..." It was all fine. 

Sherlock was staring at him still, into him, through him, and John looked away, his chest heavy to accompany the lump in his throat. What was he waiting for?

Without preamble, Sherlock walked to the cupboard and pulled out a sturdy metal chain with two leather cuffs attached at opposite ends of one another. 

Sherlock beckoned him to stand beneath the lowered bar and took his wrists in hand, pale eyes softening as John exhaled tremulously and flicked his eyes up to meet Sherlock's tentatively. Sherlock brought one wrist up and placed his lips over John's pulse point, a lingering kiss pressed gently over his skin, before doing the same with the other. "I'll take care of you."

Sherlock's gentle words spoken so soothingly against his flesh, were a balm, smoothing over John's frayed nerves, calming him. John nodded, and with his consent, Sherlock slung the leather cuffs over the hook that held the bar and wrapped each wrist in a cuff. The inside of the cuffs were lined with fur for added comfort and resistance against chafing; it was a relief, if John was right about Sherlock's idea. Sherlock had him lift his upper body to test the durability of the chain, before they moved on to the next sequence. 

Sherlock paused to contemplate the length of the chain that held the bar, before he knelt down place both hands on the back of John's calf. "This will require some upper body strength, John, do you think you can handle it?"

John rolled his eyes, but smiled agreeably. "Try me."

Sherlock returned the sentiment and gave no further warning before John's feet were leaving the floor. Quicker than John could follow, Sherlock had the buckle strapped around his ankle, and was moving around to lift the other. 

"Oh, _bloody_ fucking hell," John intoned, his voice shaking a bit more than he would like to admit, but _hell_ , his feet weren't touching the ground anymore! 

It was just as well that the mirror was perfectly placed.

His legs were spread widely, obscenely, buckled into the cuffs on either side of the bar. John could see between the gap in his arms, see the way he'd been spread open with no way to cover himself. Now he understood why Sherlock had been so insistent before. Sherlock wanted John to be sure that he would trust him in his most vulnerable state. 

Sherlock was circling him, checking the cuffs on his wrist, the strength of the chain, and finally, John himself, sharp almond eyes glowing with pleasure. John could already feel the heat of those hands roaming over this body, the curve of his arse, until the simmering warmth in his upper body wasn't the only thing burning for Sherlock. 

Sherlock's sleeves were rolled to his elbows and the top two buttons on his shirt had been undone, revealing an elegant line of creamy flesh, a long pale throat that swallowed under at the sight of their reflection in the mirror. 

"I wanted to blindfold you, but I thought you might want to see what I see while I'm having my way with you," said Sherlock in a voice as svelte as velvet, the most erotic thing John could ever remember hearing, turning him inside out. "You'll forgive me if I... seem a bit slovenly this time. I've never had you like this." Sherlock came to stand between John's spread legs and trailed a hand from sternum to groin, coasting over the planes of John's stomach with restrained possessiveness. Sherlock licked his lips and flicked his eyes up to meet John's, pure liquid and fire, though unwavering, and John tipped his head back and groaned quietly. 

Sherlock returned to the cupboard and rummaged around for a moment, before pulling out with a few items that John recognized from his first time in 221C. 

"How do you feel," Sherlock asked without looking away from the cupboard, though his body tensed when John failed to answer right away. "Don't be an idiot, John. If you should find yourself under any duress during the scene, use your safe word and we will stop immediately." Sherlock turned, his expression severe in the low light of the room. 

John nodded quickly, seeking to reassure Sherlock. For all that there was a slight strain on his upper body, John didn't want to stop. It was to be expected, as John didn't exercise regularly, but in the eventuality that his body grew uncomfortably strained, he wouldn't hesitate to notify Sherlock. 

"I'm fine," John answered firmly. 

Sherlock returned with a soft "hm," and continued his perusal of the cupboard. "Have you ever played with nipple clamps before, John?" 

"Can't say that I have."

Sherlock was throwing items on the bed, but even in the reflection, they disappeared in the folds of the sheets. Finally, Sherlock closed the cupboard and meandered back towards John in a casual stroll that left him more nervous than anything. 

"Pity," Sherlock drawled, a slow smirk creeping up to his lips. "It never ceases to amaze me how responsive your body is to me. I want to see how far I can take you before you reach your threshold."

Sherlock swept round him to the bed and grabbed something metallic, slipping it into his pocket along with a bottle of lubrication and what looked like a butt plug and some kind of switch, which he slipped into his other pocket. 

John could feel it now, the tremor quaking its way up his spine, starting at his coccyx and slivering up to the notch at the nape of his neck. In his bent position, it was all the more intense. 

Sherlock came to a stop between his legs, slotting his narrow hips into the obtuse angle his spread thighs created, until his balls were brushing against the herringbone cloth of Sherlock's trousers. Sherlock bent, until his long form was leaning over John's restrained body, his warm erection pressed against the crease of John's arse. 

John inhaled deeply, his hands beginning to sweat where they gripped the chain attached to his cuffs as much for courage as they did leverage. "Feel free to make as much noise as you'd like. Mrs Hudson is away for the rest of the evening."

John swallowed, swiping a sandy tongue over his dry lips. 

Sherlock's lips were ghosting along the edge of John's mouth, feather soft. Sherlock's exhalations were calm and measured beside John's laboured ones, a testimony of the power he held over his own body. John held no such compunction about the way his body responded. He wasn't ashamed and it would only insult Sherlock if he held back. 

John didn't close his eyes until the very last second, refused to look away from the steel grey specks in Sherlock's eyes, the way his hoods lowered until John could barely see through the dark fringe of lashes between. He was beautiful. 

Sherlock's lips over his own were ravenous, devouring everything like a hurricane upon landfall, and John had no choice but to let him take. Warm breath and dry lips, the bittersweet taste of dry wine and earl grey tea. A new drug that John found himself addicted to. Sherlock was gripping the hair at the nape of his neck with one large hand, while the other came up to fondle his pebbled nipples, one and then the other. 

John used his grip on the chain to pull up, until his belly was flush with Sherlock's chest. 

Sherlock's lips slid away, only to trace a line of nips down his chin and neck, biting down roughly on John's clavicle until he exhaled sharply. 

As Sherlock's mouth began to move south, John could see the bruised red skin left behind, a physically mapped trajectory of bites from Sherlock's teeth. Then, a hot, slick tongue was drawing circles around his nipple, flicking the bud until John was straining against his restraints. He wanted to sink his fingers into those curls and tug. 

Sherlock moaned around his nipple, his hips jerking forward in a single thrust before he pulled back, licking his lips. "Exceptional," he breathed, as if he'd tasted a fine palate. "You are truly a wonder, my dear Watson."

Sherlock descended on the opposite nipple, rolling the already hardened bud between his tongue and teeth. He sucked hard once more, inciting a loud cry to slip between John's lips, before pulling away entirely. Sherlock slipped a hand in his pocket and pulled out a long silver chain linking two clips together, tipped with rubber ends. He held it up so that John could see, before leaning back in for one more lick to John's nipple, taking the bud between forefinger and thumb and attaching the clamp. Sherlock repeated the motions for the opposite nipple, before stepping back to survey his handy work. 

John tore his eyes reluctantly from Sherlock's darkened gaze to the mirror. He gasped at the indecent display he made. The chain hung in a parabola between his clamped nipples, gleaming brightly against his pale chest. John's nipples were red and swollen between the clamps, pearly with Sherlock's saliva. 

Sherlock pushed a large hand up his stomach until his fingers came into contact with the linking chain. Lightly, he pulled.

The sensation was immediate. John bucked at the wash of pain and pleasure, the tug on his nipples, still tender from Sherlock's probing tongue and teeth. It wasn't the pain as much as it was the pressure of the clamps stymying the blood flow to his nipples. It was a strange feeling, but there was something erotic about the pain and who was causing it that left John breathless and wanting more. 

In the reflection, his cock was red and leaking and Sherlock moved to his side, so that he could watch the two of them together; John, panting and red faced while Sherlock's pale eyes swept him slowly from head to toe. 

"I dreamed about you like this once before," Sherlock began, his voice low and dark, settling over John like a cloud of fog, enchanting him. While he spoke, Sherlock pulled the second item from his pocket: a tube of lubrication. "I know this might be a bit advanced for you, but you've done so well thus far. Taken to this like you were born to do it."

Sherlock stopped speaking, only long enough to squeeze a dollop of the clear, viscous liquid onto his fingers . "You appeared much as you do now," Sherlock purred, lowering his lubed digits to trace the fissure of his arse from the top to his perineum. John pushed up into the hand, his eyelids fluttering beneath the onslaught of Sherlock's careful touch. 

"Except you allowed me to do things to you that you aren't quite ready for." At that, Sherlock lifted his eyes to John, beautifully mercurial and without depth, they sucked up all the light in the room and captivated every empty portion of John's mind until there was only Sherlock. 

John lifted his chin a bit, rising to the unspoken challenge, but Sherlock smiled indulgently and continued his slow torture. "Not this time, John."

"Tell me," John bit out on the edge of a gasp as Sherlock's fingers skirted around the rim of his arsehole. "Tell me what you did." He wanted to know the things Sherlock dreamed of doing to him, what levels of depravity he could lower the man to. When Sherlock hesitated, John repeated himself, but with an urgency that wasn't there before. He needed to know. 

Sherlock looked up, locking their eyes together while he sunk a finger inside of John, an acuity in his gaze that spoke of darker aspirations. John's chest rose and fell faster, and Sherlock pushed in harder, until his finger was glancing against his prostate. Sherlock's eyelids lowered at the way in which John dissolved beneath his touch, a shivering moan tearing from his larynx loud and unchecked. 

Sherlock withdrew his finger, adding more lubrication to the tips, before he was delving inside of John, adding two more fingers. "Alright," Sherlock nodded, bringing one hand up to toy with the chain attached to the nipple clamps, while the other kept up a steady rhythm of 'in' and 'out'. "As I said, you appeared much like you are now, except I had you gagged. Though, I appreciate you more this way, where I can hear you scream, but we can't always control our dreams." Sherlock twisted his fingers at the same time as he pulled on the chain, and fuck, his back bent into a perfect arch at the sensation. Sherlock ran an unhurried tongue over his bottom lip, his eyes lingering on John's cock slapping against his navel. 

"Your arse was red from the caning I'd given you. Beautiful welts to compliment an equally Beautiful arse.” A pause. “Has anyone ever told you how lovely you look when you're naked?" Sherlock leaned down, though he didn't have to go far. John's body was raised high enough that his arse was level with Sherlock's ribs. He licked a clean line up the underside of John's cock, and then down again where he placed his lips around his balls. Sherlock suckled lightly on one and then the other, pulling off with an filthy smack. 

"Perfectly rounded arse, wonderfully shaped thighs, plush." Sherlock turned his head slightly to nip at John's inner thigh, pulling pale flesh between his teeth until a bruise began to bloom. "A _tight_ little body," there his voice dipped a fraction lower, "perfect height to lift you and wrap your legs around my waist. Fuck you in tight spaces." 

John shivered at his words, a full body tremble that made his bones quake. Sherlock was doing him in with his words alone, but John was as close to heaven as he was ever going to get with Sherlock's fingers prodding relentlessly against his prostate. 

Sherlock gently withdrew his fingers and took a measured breath, breathing a bit harder than he was before. John could see his cock pressed against his trousers, the silhouette of a long, hard ridge. From his pocket, he procured a plain black plug, thick round the body and narrow at the tip, and added lubricant before placing it against John's loosened hole. With a quick flick of his eyes up to John, Sherlock pressed it in with unhurried precision until the tip just barely grazed his prostate. 

"You're doing well, John," Sherlock praised, his bright eyes gleaming with pride, among other things. "I believe I promised you a reward for good behaviour."

Then, John's body was being propelled into another level of intensity when the plug began to vibrate inside of him and Sherlock was humming around his balls. God, his entire body was straining towards Sherlock, searching for a sweet release, riding on the high of bliss and debauchery. It was brilliant and John couldn't speak past the body-wracking trembles and Sherlock's tongue siphoning his essence through his cock. 

The noises that left him were embarrassingly high pitched, but John didn't care enough to stop them from sounding out, because Sherlock was turning him inside out. 

The vibrations stopped as suddenly as they started and John was caught in the balance between alright and not alright, because he wanted to come so badly, but it would all be over if he did and that was the last thing John wanted to happen. 

Sherlock pulled off and continued speaking as if he'd never stopped, just as softly pitched as before. "Where were we? Ah, I was describing my dream to you." Sherlock paused, swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and lazily walked a half circle around John until he was standing behind him, stooping so that his chest brushed John's upper back and his lips on John's temple. 

"You were panting like you are now, red in the face and making the most delectable noises." Sherlock placed a soft kiss into his hair, catching John's eyes in the reflection. "I had all five fingers inside of you and your cock down my throat, and the neighbors were banging down the wall shouting about the noise." Sherlock had one hand resting on John's neck, over the carotid artery, feeling his pulse, no doubt. The other hand was making a gradual trip over the expanse of his chest and stomach. Sherlock's fingers slid over the swollen buds of his nipples, careful not to put too much pressure. They were still sensitive, however, and John's back dipped to seek respite from Sherlock's questing hand. 

"There were tears streaming down your face, but you weren't hurting. You were overwhelmed by my touch and tilting your hips up to take my fingers deeper." The vibrations started again and John turned his face into Sherlock's neck, moaning against the creamy skin, the heady smell of sex permeating his nostrils. "Mm, just like you are now. You had a collar on that linked to nipple clamps, so any time you moved too much, it would pull until your nipples turned a dashing shade of red. You came apart so beautifully." The plug silenced again. 

John could see it as if it were happening. Sherlock with his mouth on John's cock, staring at him from beneath his fringe as his mouth bobbed up then down at a maddeningly slow pace. John, unable to say a thing, completely trusting Sherlock to stop when things went too far. 

Sherlock was watching him in the mirror, that frustratingly smug smirk in place as if he knew exactly what John was picturing. John was sure he did. "I woke in the middle of the night, achingly disappointed that I didn't get to see what happened next. Then I remembered that I didn't have to fantasize about it. You would let me do those things to you, wouldn't you, John?"

Sherlock pulled the chain hard and switched on the vibrator and John _screamed_. Sherlock's eyes closed blissfully in the reflection, the picture of serenity and satisfaction, his nose pressed into John's cheek. 

John couldn't breathe, felt like the world could end at that moment and he wouldn't even notice, because he was existing solely under the guise that Sherlock _was_ everything in those seconds of pain and a pleasure so intense his eyes were watering. His arms were burning from the strain and John had never thought himself quite flexible enough to be spread in such a way, but he'd be damned if Sherlock stopped now. 

Sherlock pulled away and came round, unbuttoning his pants with quick flicks of his fingers, the hum of the zip, and then a blushing, heavy cock was spilling out of his trousers. 

_Fuck_. Of course he wouldn't have put the same pants on from the night before. John nearly came thinking about Sherlock walking round London with no pants underneath. How had he not noticed?

Sherlock pulled the lube from his pockets, squeezed some into his fingers and threw the bottle towards the bed, where it missed and hit the floor with a dull thud. 

Sherlock's eyes were wild and excited as he pulled the plug out and dropped it to the ground, leaned slightly over John and positioned his cock at John's arsehole, before sinking in, one hand on the nape on John's neck.

John squeezed his hands round the chain on his cuffs and pushed his arse down onto Sherlock's cock, eager and wanton. As much as he enjoyed Sherlock's ministrations, John had wanted him inside hours ago.

Sherlock groaned, unable to stop the stuttering of his hips as John clenched down on his erection. With vigour, he renewed his thrust and pushed in until John's body was bucking against his, the added sensation of Sherlock's silk shirt running against his clamped nipples, painful. 

The head of Sherlock's cock was hitting John's prostate with unerring accuracy, a feat Sherlock always seemed to be able to keep up with each time they had sex. Though, John thought, he shouldn't be surprised. He was sleeping with someone who was nothing short of a genius. If anyone knew the ins and outs of anatomy, it would be Sherlock. 

When John came, it hit like a freight. He wasn't expecting it. Sherlock hadn't even been touching his cock, but with the help of the cock ring, his orgasm had been building up for some time, and Sherlock's ability to hit his prostate without fail had him doubling over as much as was possible in his restraints. John's vision grew spotty and his eyes were rolling into the back of his head. The tremors had taken over completely, and his thighs were quaking with the force of his orgasm. John couldn't tell if he was dying or being revived, but it felt like ascension. 

He vaguely realized he was moaning quite loudly, and that Sherlock had joined him at some point, having reached his threshold as John's body squeezed every last bit of release from his cock. 

When it was over, John was empty and spineless, and trying to remember how to breathe properly.

Sherlock slid out of him carefully and hastily unbuckled John's restraints, working first at his ankles and then his arms. Sherlock had one arm around the middle of his back and the other releasing him from the last of his bonds so that he wouldn't fall. 

It was an odd feeling, painful, as the blood flowed back to his legs and arms, and John knew that he was not going to feel pleasant in the morning. He could feel the wetness between his arse cheeks, the soft plop of Sherlock's come dripping onto the hardwood as he walked.

With Sherlock's help, he limped to the bed where Sherlock laid him out and gently removed the clamps from his nipples and the ring from round his deflated cock and balls. John groaned, crossing his arms over his chest protectively. It hurt like hell.

"Back in a moment," Sherlock told him, running a hand through his curls as he stepped out into the hall. John could hear the door to the loo open, and shortly after, the sound of running water. 

The water was still running when Sherlock returned to the room, appearing a bit uncertain as he observed John curled up on the bed. Every bit of him ached, but his chest warmed at Sherlock's uncharacteristic hesitation. The man seemed to take a deep breath before he spoke again, with a defiant lift to his chin. "John, would you be amenable to sharing a bath with me?"

John turned over, raising up on his elbows as he regarded Sherlock with an amicable smirk. "I would but, I don't know if I can walk. You did quite a number on me, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock's chin lifted a bit more - John was sure if he moved it up another inch, he'd be able to see up his nose - gaining his confidence back in a tiny motion. "I'm not an idiot, John, nor am I weak. I have no qualms about helping you to the bath."

John gestured in an 'as you like' motion, and Sherlock helped him up from the bed, taking most of his weight and he wrapped a strong arm round John's waist. 

Once they made it the loo, Sherlock sat him down on the toilet and went to turn the tap off. 

Already the steam was seeping into John's skin, relaxing him as he watched Sherlock undress and fold his clothes neatly to place on the counter. Sherlock held a hand out to John and led them both to the bath, where he stepped in first, and then pulled John in to settle carefully between his lengthy legs. 

John leaned back against Sherlock's broad chest, sighing. "I don't think I'll be able to move tomorrow." The water was warm and soothed the unfamiliar aches in his bones. 

Sherlock snickered behind him, warm breaths caressing the nape of John's neck, and wrapped his arm around John's chest. "You did well on your first time with suspension bondage. Most don't take to it very well on the first go." Sherlock paused and pushed his nose into the blond head leaning against his shoulder. "You didn't even use your safe word."

John turned slightly, angling his body so that he could see Sherlock. The man was grinning down at him, his shoulders less drawn up than they had been since the last time they were in 221C. "I don't know- I mean I don't know if it makes me weird, but I liked it."

Sherlock's grin grew wider, then faded the longer he stared back, not grave, but serious none-the-less. "You are unlike anyone I've ever had the fortune of meeting," Sherlock said, finally putting words to his mysterious thoughts. "You've every reason to run screaming and yet... you want more."

John's eyes flitted from Sherlock's eyes, to his lips and back, unsure what to say. He wasn't anything special. Besides having a lover who had eclectic tastes in the bedroom, he was just a normal bloke. There was nothing fascinating about him. Eventually, Sherlock would get bored-

"I would never," Sherlock said suddenly, "and stop looking at me that way. You're not ready for another fucking, but don't tempt me."

Indeed he wasn't, but it was flattering to think that he tempted Sherlock so. 

John turned and stared down into the water, cupping the liquid and watching it trickle between his fingers. Sherlock's arm was a comforting brace round him, careful to avoid pressure against his nipples. 

It was startling to think that a month ago, John didn't have any of that familiar comfort with anyone. He thought that Sherlock was an egotistical, self-righteous prick with time enough only to cut people off at the knees and make his money. Well, that was all still true, save the last bit. Sherlock didn't seem to care much about the money, though he had it, but the man behind the mask was turning out to be much more of an enigma than John had originally thought. It appeared that Sherlock felt the same way about him.

Sherlock reached behind him to grab the soap that sat in the corner of the bath, pouring some onto a sponge. He pulled John's fingers to his lips, kissing his them softly before he began to rub the sponge over his skin. It was so tender, so unexpected, but John welcomed it. A part of him rebelled at being handled as if he were breakable, like some fragile thing, but it wasn't often that he was treated that way at all. Although John had assumed a submissive role in their dynamic, Sherlock appreciated that he was still a man and to compromise that would be to lose John. 

Sherlock dragged the sponge across his chest, soothingly over his nipples and then harder over his stomach to scrub away the dried semen. Sherlock was a quiet presence behind him, and John didn't feel the need to fill the comfortable silence with chatter. 

There was something even more intimate about Sherlock cleaning him, more so than sex. It was a calmer sort of passion, and John was sure he could write a book with the words they weren't saying. 

That would make one hell of a story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I never did quite get to the angst, so that will be next chapter. I didn't realize how much I actually wrote. See, I told you this story has a mind of its own. Feedback will be much appreciated. Thoughts, con-crit, it's all fine! Come join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for more Johnlock, toplock, excerpts, misc. stuff! I put all my updates on my tumblr, also!


	15. The Dead-Eyed Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock convinces John to join him at a gala, and John meets some very unfavourable people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for the long wait, my friends. Please enjoy this new chapter!
> 
> Playlist:  
> [Black Mambo by Glass Animals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=49M1O2YgDfE)  
> [I put a spell on you by Annie Lennox](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TrSMaOZm3Y) (Bathroom/mirror segment of the chapter)  
> [Lovefool by The Cardigans](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUodwTf8JJw)  
> [Dark Times by The Weeknd Ft. Ed Sheeran](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdI_Uk6CYNk) (Car segment near the end)

The day John's personalized wardrobe arrived, courtesy of Victor Trevor, happened to be the day in which Sherlock decided he would notify John of a gala they’d be attending that very same evening. Then, Sherlock proceeded to “inform” John that it was his duty as Sherlock's personal assistant, to attend “tedious social functions” so that he would not be bored by the “dullards” that usually participated such “pointless, pestilential tripe,” himself excluded, of course. 

It’d been two weeks since “THE scene”, as John began to refer to it; the one where Sherlock strung John up, fucked him out of his mind and then gently bathed his aching body, afterwards. The next morning he roused painfully with an aching backside and numbs limbs. John nearly tore Sherlock's head off when he tried to convince John to leave the bed, because it was _Sherlock's_ fault that he felt like he’d fallen several stories and landed in every painful way possible. The only thing that hadn't hurt was his face. 

Fortunately, he was fine by Monday and the next two weeks flew by without a hitch. The second week, Sherlock hadn't turned up in John's bedroom, and it wasn't until he’d been burrowing into his pillow in exhaust, dreadfully alone, that his phone beeped with a text. It was Sherlock, notifying him that he was on a case, which John roughly translated to Sherlock forcefully inserting himself into a crime scene with the Met. 

The only glimpse of Sherlock that John received that week were in passing at the office, and contact had been minimal. John wouldn't say that it irked him, as he and Sherlock had already decided that work would be separate from their private affairs, but he’d missed Sherlock intruding on his crap telly and stealing his cups of tea, and the sex, of course. 

Then it was Sunday morning and Sherlock was pushing into the loo while John showered, already divesting his clothes as he prattled on about his case with Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, whom John had only met once, briefly, at the office. 

Sherlock's eyes were red-rimmed as if he hadn't slept in days, and the dark circles beneath them stood out harshly against pale skin. When Sherlock stepped in, long arms curling automatically around John's waist, John brought his thumbs up to run worriedly over the bruises. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swatted John's hand away, mumbling, “I’m fine,” as he dropped his head to pull John into a greedy kiss. It's slow, churning sensations and wet skin, and suddenly it seemed as though there was never any distance between them. John ran soapy fingers through Sherlock's wet hair and the groan this elicited sent a warmth shooting keenly through John's loins, hot and sultry. 

It didn’t take long to escalate, and soon, they were piling out of the shower, having rushed through it with efficient swipes of the sponge. The bed was damp beneath their wet bodies, but neither of them paid it any mind. 

It was something different this time. Sherlock had wanted John and John wanted Sherlock, and soon enough Sherlock - with his brilliant mind - was lying supine on John's bed and leading him over with a hand. Sherlock pulled him up and over until his knees were weighing anchor on either side of his head, and John's groin was an imperfect arch over Sherlock's warm, lovely mouth. John’s attempts to reciprocate were fumbling and awkward, his mouth moving inelegantly around Sherlock's hardness as Sherlock rubbed clever fingers over the line of his perineum. 

John moaned and pushed his hips down, but Sherlock's free hand clamped down on John's hip, stilling his frantic motions. John thought fleetingly that he should be returning the favour, but he couldn't think past, _‘Oh dear God, what is he doing with his mouth!_ Fuckfuckfuck!’

He lowered his lips until they were licking the underside of Sherlock's erection, and then he's losing his breath because Sherlock had shifted his attention to John's balls, kneading them, worshiping them with his tongue and lips. John's back bent until he heard it creak and Sherlock hummed around his cock like a man fulfilled. John shuddered and set to work on Sherlock, finally taking his velvet soft erection between spit-slicked lips and bobbed his head until Sherlock was just as wrecked as John. 

Sherlock's hands skimmed up his ribs and up and up and up until his large hands cupped the firm globes of John's arse cheeks in both hands, and surged up, pulling John's cock into his throat with admirable suction. The edges of John's vision blurred white until his eyes slipped closed, squeezing as his orgasm punched through his body like a particularly violent, but satisfying rugby match. John's hips rocked forward as Sherlock's throat convulsed around his pulsing erection. 

Sherlock's hips stuttered, his cock slapping against John's chin as he sought release, and John obliged, wrapping his hand around the base of Sherlock's cock as he swallowed the rest. 

“John,” Sherlock groaned, his voice faint from between John's legs, and John increased his pace, eager to please. His saliva eased the way, falling over his fingers as he momentarily dipped his tongue in Sherlock's urethra, tasting the salt of pre-come there. “Yes, that's lovely, John.”

Sherlock's arms were wrapped around his thighs, nails pressing crescents into John's flesh. He was close. 

John released Sherlock's cock and bypassed it to take Sherlock's balls in his mouth, one finger wandering boldly to trace the seam of his perineum. Sherlock bucked and abruptly came into John's mouth, his back bowing away from the bed in a graceful arch. God, he was beautiful. 

John swallowed, grimacing as the semen slid thickly down his throat, and swung his leg over Sherlock's head, so that they were lying head to feet. “That was brilliant,” said John, once he’d gotten his breath back. The room was dark for the bit of light peaking through the crack under his door. Damned shame his room didn't have a window. He loved to see Sherlock directly after sex, the way his skin glowed in the natural light, the way his dark curls contrasted with the sheets, and most of all, the open, sincere spark of something unexplainable in his eyes when he looked at John. 

“It always is,” Sherlock said, running his fingers over John's toes. John wiggled them, smiling widely down at the wonderful berk reclining lazily in his bed. “I actually came for a reason, but as always, you're a distraction.”

John scoffed, lifting his upper body on his elbows, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock who returned the favour, though in a noticeably more impressive fashion. The cheeky bastard. “ _You_ climbed into the shower with _me_. Whatever happened afterwards was all you, mate.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I'm not your mate and come down here. You're too far and I don't feel like raising my head to look at you.”

John rolled his eyes, smirking fondly at his lover. “Lazy sod,” he mumbled, though there was no real heat behind his words. He shuffled around until he was eye-to-eye with Sherlock and grunted, “Happy?”

“Ehhh-”

“Shut it.”

Sherlock’s lips pulled up into that “I'm an annoying dick, but you like it,” smirk and John snorted before dissolving into a fit of giggles, which Sherlock joined shortly after until they were both fairly cackling like mad hatters. 

Eventually, the laughing died down and John was staring into mercurial eyes that were equally entranced with him, and wondering when the hell did he fall for Sherlock Holmes. 

-

Sherlock didn't actually tell him what he’d popped in for until he’d dropped off into sleep for a few hours and roused near midday. 

Mike was out and the two of them were sitting at the kitchen table over cuppas and bantering. 

“So you said you came for something besides the opportunity to shag me and kip on my bed,” John prompted, hiding a playful smile behind his cup, though Sherlock saw it anyway. 

Sherlock cleared his throat and tapped his long fingers against the cup where they met at the tips. “Yes, I,” he began, sounding uncharacteristically nervous, “wanted you- will need you to accompany me to a gala tonight. A little sordid affair I've been trying to get out of, but it seems it is impossible.”

John quirked an eyebrow, slowly setting his cup down on the table. “Tonight?”

Sherlock nodded and John nodded back, pursing his lips. “Right, and how long have you known about this?”

Sherlock shrugged, struggling to keep his face impassive, though John noticed the tightness at the corners of his eyes. “A few months, perhaps.”

“And you're telling me the day of…,” John asked slowly, a vein just beginning to protrude near his temple. It was a bad sign when his face flushed an angry red. “Sherlock, how do you know I didn't have anything planned with Mike or Sarah? My life doesn't revolve around you, you know!”

Sherlock sat back, unlacing his hands from the cup and folding his arms over his chest, positively sulking. He rolled his eyes as if the very thought of John having a separate life was absurd. “You're _my_ personal assistant, John. If I need you, you should be available to me, and I need you tonight.”

‘ _You_ wanker!’

John sat up to run his hands through his hair in annoyance. At this rate, John was going to go prematurely bald. “No, Sherlock- just… no. That's not how it works.”

Sherlock growled, unfolding his arms, only to stand and ruffle his hair harshly with his hands in frustration as he began to pace back and forth in a dizzying pattern. “John, I'm _trying_ -” Sherlock started, but cut off abruptly. Then, he turned and stared at John with his lips parted in realization, until John began to fidget beneath those sharp, glass eyes. “Forgive me, John. What I mean to say is… will you accompany me to the gala this evening?”

Damn the bastard with his stupid charm and pleading eyes, and _dammit_! How could he say no, even with the knowledge that he was being ruthlessly manipulated?! John wasn't even sure he wanted to say no. The fact that Sherlock wanted to take him to a public function was flattering; a man who valued his privacy yet never secreted John away like some mistress (which he blanched at being referred to as). No, John was no blushing mistress and Sherlock was no gullible, wealthy man being duped. He _wanted_ John with him, and John wanted nothing more than to be there. 

John rubbed at his forehead nervously with his index finger, avoiding Sherlock's - stupid - smug face, and heaved one last sigh of defiance. “Do I at least have time to get a haircut?”

Sherlock smiled delightedly and crossed his arms behind his back, his chest jutting out like a bloody, preening bird. “Don't be silly, John. You look fine,” he placated, stalking around the table to run his fingers through John's unruly hair. “Besides,” Sherlock bent to whisper in his ear, followed by a short nip with just a hint of tongue. No, John did not melt! He just got a little dazed…”I like having something to pull.”

John blushed, swatting Sherlock away, but the man ducked it gracefully, spinning on his feet. Twat.

‘ _My twat, though._ ’ 

The thought came fond and unbidden, but this time, John didn't push it away. The sentiment made him smile. 

“I don't even _have_ a suit, Sherlock,” John stated, which was a valid concern. A gala sounded fancy and _nothing_ in John's wardrobe was considered fancy past the late nineties. 

Sherlock clapped. “Ah, but you do. As always, Victor’s delivery was right on schedule. Now get dressed. Your new wardrobe is at Baker Street.”

“What, Sherlock-,” John began, opening his mouth to admonish the older man. He hadn't even finished his tea yet.

“Come _on_ , John,” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder, flouncing purposefully back to John's bedroom. “We haven't got all day!”

John sat there for a moment longer, wondering when he’d allowed this mad man to take over his life. Then again, he couldn't wipe the silly smile off his face. 

-

“ _John_! Aren't you _ready_ yet?” 

Sherlock banged against the door with his fist, making enough racket to alert all of Baker Street (and the married ones next door, according to Mrs Hudson) that John was _still_ in the loo. 

No, John was not ready yet, because… well, because he couldn't stop staring at himself in disbelief. Victor Trevor, it appeared, was a man who knew how to make a damned good suit. Of course John already knew this, could tell by the cut of Sherlock bespoke wardrobe, but he never thought that he would see it on himself. 

The suit was a bright navy three-piece wonder trimmed in beige silk, with neat, barely perceptible hand stitched embroidery on the lapel. The shawl collared waistcoat was the same striking blue as the suit and trousers with three smooth, silver buttons clasped tightly over his abdomen. The tie was complete cheek; a knitted, beige item that cut off neatly beneath the waistcoat. To top it off, Victor had afforded John no extra cloth than what was necessary. It all fit terribly close. 

Damn. He looked _good_. 

“ _John_!”

With one last hand through his hair, John turned and swung the door open.

Sherlock was ranting as soon as the door was open. “One would think you were capable of putting on a suit in a timely manner. I thought you might have fallen in the- _oh_.”

Sherlock's eyes dragged up, slowly, and then down, his eyes lingering on the shiny new Ferragamo captoe oxfords that Sherlock just “happened” to have stowed away in John’s exact size. He didn't even want to know what the price of the shoes were, and would be returning them to Sherlock directly after. John still wasn't sure how to feel about Sherlock spending so much money on him, but that would be a conversation best left for another night. 

Sherlock was no slouch himself, opting to don his long, lean frame in all black attire. His suit was cleanly cut and clung to his form like a particularly clingy woman. The shirt was a plain, cotton black with the first two buttons undone to provide the allure of hairless, pale skin. No tie, so John could see the buttons barely clinging to the holes. A plain leather belt and black oxfords completed the look. Yes, Sherlock was a feast for the eyes. 

Sherlock's eyes snapped back up to his, and then John was being backed into the loo and Sherlock's lips were doing their best to meld into John's. It was nothing but fire and a slow, slow serenade. Sherlock’s body trapped him against the counter with force enough to bruise his back, but all John could think about was climbing that long body and giving the man what he wanted. When their lips parted, they were both panting and out of breath. John thought that if they stayed that way a moment longer, he’d be sweating right through his new suit. 

“Don't,” Sherlock breathed over John's lips as John pressed a hand against his chest to push him back. Sherlock's eyes shifted lazily from his eyes to a point over John's shoulder as one hand moved up from the nape of his neck and into his hair. The other pushed a diagonal line down John's back until it came to rest at the small of his back. When John turned his head just slightly, Sherlock was staring fixedly at their bodies welded like scorching metal. Together, John had to admit that they were quite a sight. Under the burning yellow lights of the vanity, Sherlock’s gaze burned sinfully, unabashedly piercing and luminescent. 

In a painfully slow movement, Sherlock turned his head until his nose was a whistle thin caress along John's cheek and jaw. 

“Mine,” Sherlock whispered, almost too softly for John to hear, but the brush of his mouth forming the words confirmed it. So, John turned his face until their lips collided in an embrace wrought with desire and intention, and _God_ , Sherlock's lips were soft. John pushed forward, and Sherlock's hand slipped beneath his jacket, grabbing at skin and John hung on because it was all he could do not to place his hands on Sherlock's zipper and _mhm_. 

Needless to say, they were late to the gala. 

-

John had never seen so many luxury cars in his life, lined up in the valet queue when the driver steered the car to the kerb before the Royal Society of Medicine on Wimpole Street. It was all Edwardian baroque architecture and projected multi-colored lights reflecting off of heavy stone walls. Two bulbous lamps sat on brick arches, flanking the door on either side, lighting the way to a party that was already in full swing. A few photographers hung just to the side of the steps, staring hungrily as Sherlock and John emerged from the vehicle. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” one shouted, “can we get a picture?”

Sherlock ignored the man, placing a hand on the small of John's back as the doorman opened the door to allow them inside. The photographer snapped a picture, anyways. Men and women were dressed in their finest, but comfortable among colleagues as some cackled loudly among their groups while others spoke in low, sophisticated murmurs. Lovefool played at a subdued volume beneath the hum of voices, which a few people were dancing drunkenly to.

The interior was an intimidating plethora of high arches and shimmering marble tile. A dance floor had been cleared in the middle of the hall, but most ignored it, heading for the snack table instead. John turned his head to see Sherlock watching him take it all in with a placid smile, ignoring everything else around him. 

Sherlock was gorgeous in his midnight ensemble, and though they’d only had one another not more than an hour ago, John found himself wanting to ruffle Sherlock's neatly combed curls and pull him down. 

“You're bored by _this_ ,” John asked in wonder, his eyes tearing away from Sherlock to peer around the hall once more. It was all so posh, and John still couldn't believe that he was there, surrounded by lavish decor and heavy-pocketed entrepreneurs. He felt out of place and like he didn't belong. Which was true. This may be Sherlock's lifestyle, but John could understand how the man could get bored with it all. These people were beautiful and rich, but utterly _boring_. 

Great. Now he was starting to sound like Sherlock. 

Sherlock grimaced, scanning the occupants of the room contemptuously. “A lifetime of idiots, John, and you would be, too. So far, I've yet to enjoy any of these events. Though, they are a cesspool for bored millionaires with dirty little secrets.” 

Sherlock smiled wickedly and turned to a woman in a gossamer ruby dress that fell to the tops of her knees. She was beautiful, long dark hair and bangs that framed chocolate, almond eyes. “Aimi Moto, born Ichiro Moto, quite famously known as being the first transgendered neurosurgeon. She's having an affair with the gentleman with the horrid hair plugs,” Sherlock tipped his regal head at a man in another group debating pugnaciously with a younger male. He had a Bill Nye-esque appeal, though he was a bit thick around the middle. “He hasn't told his wife that he has a fetish for breasts and cock,” he said, the ‘ck' a resonant click at the back of his throat. 

John snorted, turning halfway to hide his laugh from the subjects of Sherlock's observations. Next to him, Sherlock rocked back on his heels briefly, folding his hands behind his back like smug arse that he was. The corner of his lip tipped just enough to showcase a curved dimple. 

With Sherlock's razor sharp wit and no-holds-barred deductions, John spent the next half hour nearly in tears. The few people brave enough to greet them were allowed two minutes each - John counted - before Sherlock dismissed them tout de suite. 

They were standing against the back wall with their champagne glasses, giggling into sips when a man approached them, stopping unceremoniously before Sherlock. John looked in time to see Sherlock's back stiffen and his features twist in exasperation and annoyance. John turned back to the man who was staring at him curiously, weight leaned upon an umbrella with an ostentatious, ornate handle. And the three-piece Gieves and Hawkes ensemble was _so_ Harry Hart. John wondered if this man’s umbrella could deflect bullets, too. Hm. John also may have been a bit tipsy, as well. 

“Ugh, I should have known you’d show your snout here at some point,” Sherlock grumbled, squeezing his hands around the glass until his knuckles turned white. 

The man smiled nastily, his lips twisting in a way that seemed unfamiliar to him. “Honestly, Sherlock, I hadn't expected you to show up at an event that didn't directly benefit you.” 

“Please, Mycroft. As if I have to attend this pretentious drivel to provide money for a charity. Last I recall, the foundation I put _you_ in charge of was still donating money annually to medical research, so what real difference would my being here cause?” 

Eh, he had a point, John thought, sipping his champagne contentedly. 

“Yes, whatever you say, Sherlock,” then the man - Mycroft? - turned his piercing green eyes on John again. “And I see you've brought a friend. How quaint.”

Sherlock stepped forward, as if to shield John from the odd fellow, but this only made the man smirk harder. “Always the insufferable busybody, eager to stick your nose into my business. You would think I've already given you enough incentive to quit prying into my life, what with a stake in my company to keep an eye on and your own section of the government to lord about. Seems you're still the lonely, beak-nose prat you've always been,” Sherlock spat scathingly. 

Always? Hm. Seemed an odd choice of words. 

Mycroft sniffed and pursed his lips, his chin tilting a fraction higher. “You're feisty tonight, brother. It wouldn't have anything to do with Mr Watson, would it, now?”

' _Brother? Ooooh._ '

Made sense. 

John leaned back against the wall, growing bored with the back and forth and allowed his eyes to scan the room. 

Wait. 

How did-

“Right, I'm sorry, have we met before ,” John enquired, standing up straight as his eyes flitted in alarm between Sherlock and the strange man. “Sherlock, did you tell him about me?”

Mycroft only widened his infuriating smirk, while Sherlock growled and crossed his arms over his chest petulantly. “Of course I didn't tell him about you. My brother is just a nosy bugger who finds it impossible to mind his own _business_!”

“Well, as enlightening as this little chat has been, I really must get back to work, brother dear. Lovely as always to see you,” Mycroft purred, and turned to John. “We will be meeting again, Mr Watson. Until then.” Mycroft gave a little bow and about-faced, swinging his umbrella with a little whistle. 

Sherlock looked like a peacock, pecking at his ruffled feathers. John pressed his lips so as not to laugh at his agitated lover. He was such a drama queen. “What,” Sherlock snapped when he caught John staring. 

“Nothing,” John answered quickly, taking another sip of his champagne. 

Sherlock's eyes lingered on John's lips as he pulled the glass away, licking away the drops of champagne that escaped the rim. 

John stared back, his stomach turning somersaults. It never failed to affect him when Sherlock looked at him that way.

“Well, well. Why, Sherly, it has been quite a while since I've laid eyes on that exquisite face!”

Sherlock froze, and John tore his eyes away to assess the newcomer that could make the usually composed man react in such a way. 

The man wasn't much taller than John and nearly drowned in a Westwood suit a size too big. His ebony hair was slicked back, to reveal a slightly receding hairline and skin as pale as the marble tile. But that wasn't what drew John's attention. It was the large chocolate, dead-eyed stare that returned John's scrutiny, but with an intensity a thousand times more comprehensive. 

In a moment, John was easily dismissed as the man turned to Sherlock with a bright grin. “Finally decided to grace us with your presence, hm? Not that we’re not all excited to see your pretty face,” he said. Then he said to John with a wiggle of his brows, “Sherly has a jawline for days, doesn't he?”

Sherlock turned his head to the stranger with narrowed eyes, his back as straight as an arrow. “Jim,” he greeted with forced politeness. “Funny to see you here. You usually don't attend these events.”

Jim threw his head back and laughed, though there was something malicious and facetious about it. “Oh, you know me, Sherlock. I'm busy as a bee! A little nectar here, a little nectar there, and then,” Jim snapped his thumb and middle finger together with a short, sharp pop, his eyes brightening viciously with the motion, “business is booming.” 

“Ah yes,” Sherlock said, his eyes dimming as if he were growing bored with the conversation, but John wasn't a fool. He knew the moment Sherlock became intrigued. His excitement was palpable, his interest in whatever weird connection was between these two. “How is business? I'm sure you're quite busy, what with money laundering on the rise and the production of potent street drugs. Last time we talked you were smuggling weapons to warlords.”

John froze, abruptly sensitive to the change in the atmosphere as Jim's grin grew tight.

Suddenly, the man smiled much too wide for it to be anything natural. “I did so miss your biting wit. It made for great dirty talk in bed,” said Jim, stepping into Sherlock's space. Sherlock made no move to push him back. 

John's heart was pounding almost as loud as the alarm bells in his head, and he tightened his grip on the stem of the glass, resisting the urge to push the man away from Sherlock. 

“Got a new one already, I see. Didn't figure him for your type, but you do like a bit of rough, don't you, Sherly.”

Sherlock scowled and finally stepped away. “Go away, Jim. We’ve had our fun, but your jealousy is boring me to tears.”

“You're bluffing,” Jim cackled, and it took all of John's self control not to punch the man in his laughing mouth. “Does he know, yet?”

“Now would be a good time to shut up, Jim,” Sherlock growled, not looking away. 

‘ _What?_ ’

Jim's eyes lit up like a kid in Christmas. “Oh, this is precious. Don't tell me you're trying to keep this one,” he said, flinging a finger at John without so much as a glance. “Oh, well…,” Jim sighed, his head moving in a vaguely reptilian motion as he fixed Sherlock with his empty gaze. “You’d better tread carefully, Sherlock. Wouldn't want all of your little secrets to come back and slap you in the face, now would we?” 

Jim shrugged, effecting an innocent facade as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and backed away. Sherlock's eyes were pale slits, more furious than John had ever seen him. 

Jim leaned over to whisper in John’s ear, one last parting blow. “Do yourself a favor and lower your standards. You're just one of many.”

Jim pulled back and smiled maliciously. “It's been fun, friends, but I really must be going. Toodaloo,” he said with a wiggle of his fingers before turning and walking back through the crowd. 

_One of many_. 

The words played over and over, and even though John was sure that Jim had been trying to rile him up, it didn't take the sting out of his words. The statement rang true. He might be in Sherlock's life now, but eventually he would get bored and John would become another notch on Sherlock's belt. 

_One of many_. 

“Stop it,” Sherlock hissed, startling John out of his pessimistic musings. He was cross. Sherlock snatched John's glass of champagne and placed it on the tray of a passing waiter, before grabbing John by the arm and hauling him out of the hall and out the doors. With a quick call, the driver was pulling up to the kerb, but Sherlock didn't wait for him to open the door. Sherlock pushed John inside first and followed after, immediately reaching for the button to roll up the partition. 

John watched him with wary eyes, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat. 

He didn't know what he was thinking, getting involved with a man like Sherlock. They had almost nothing in common, besides the sex, and there were obviously things that Sherlock didn't want him to know. 

Sherlock’s face was pinched when he turned to John, and his mouth set to a snarl. “ _What_ are you _doing_?”

John, having already endured enough vague chatter for the night, fell into the trap easily, eager for a fight. “Oh, me? Hm, nothing really, just wondering what in the bloody hell I just witnessed. Not everyday I'm on a date and said date begins flirting right in front of me.” He said it calmly, but his words were brusque and forcefully polite. Sherlock didn't appreciate it one bit.

“The moronic things that come from your mouth, but I guess I should have expected that. You're an idiot like all the rest,” Sherlock grit out, his teeth scraping loudly in the close quarters. “Yes,” Sherlock said when John frowned, “you're an idiot if you think I'd want anything more to do with Jim Moriarty. The man is a plague and an unfortunate part of my past that I want nothing to do with.”

John nodded, pursing his lips as he kept his gaze riveted to his lap. “That so,” he asked without any real interest. 

“Look at me,” Sherlock demanded, his voice a low, deep command that made every muscle in John's body tense towards him. A hand grabbed his chin firmly and wrenched his head up. “You're intelligent enough not to come to illogical conclusions based on hearsay. Why are you overreacting?”

John slapped his hand away and turned his head away. “Because, Sherlock, he said what we both knew was the truth.” He paused and flicked his eyes up to catch Sherlock's in the reflection. “I'm one of many. Soon you will get bored and there's nothing I can do to make you feel otherwise. My life is not fancy dos and bespoke suits,” John shouted, plucking at his jacket. “I'm boring and _ordinary_ and sooner or later, you will figure that out.”

John pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, feeling hollow, the earlier warmth a distant memory. Whoever this Moriarty character was to Sherlock, John was gutted by their interaction. He hadn't imagined Sherlock's fascination, nor the way his eyes lit up at the constant challenge that Moriarty embodied. 

John was only fooling himself-

John felt himself being slammed back against the seat, his breath rushing out of him in one harsh exhale. Sherlock was leaning over him, his features twisted and furious as his hands held fast around John's lifted wrists. They were both panting, refusing to back down from one another. 

Sherlock swooped down and took his lips on a punishing kiss, and John was helpless to its spell. Sherlock's teeth clashed painfully with John’s but it wasn't enough, they weren't close enough. Sherlock pressed him back against the door, fitting his thin waist between the ‘V' of John's splayed legs. 

“You- John you,” Sherlock fumbled, grabbing the hair on the nape of John's neck roughly. John reciprocated by grabbing two handfuls of those midnight curls and yanking. Sherlock nipped his lips hard enough to draw blood, crimson liquid staining his chin. “Fuck…”

Sherlock's hips ground down roughly, shoving John back into the door, his head glancing painfully off the window. “Sherlock,” John groaned, tilting his hips up to meet him midway. “I can't-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped. “I don't know how else to convince you, John,” he stated, his hips falling still. “I've never wanted anyone more in my life, and yes, my past is sordid and shitty, but _God_ , John.”

Sherlock dropped his head to the space between John's neck and shoulder, and John shifted beneath the hardness of their erections rubbing together between thin fabric. “I'm not doing a very good job of this…,” murmured Sherlock.

John's shoulders sagged, wrapping around Sherlock's shoulders. Guilt crept up on him, pulling his eyes closed as his face fell to the curls at the crown of Sherlock's head. 

John had never felt as uncertain of himself than at that moment. Why was John taking to heart the words of a man who didn't know know him from Eve, nor didn't he seem like an honest character? So then, what? Shame Sherlock for a past he couldn't change? John had his fair share of dark history, so who was he to pass judgment?

He sighed, hugging Sherlock closer. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. You've been wonderful…” And he had, so why was something tickling just at the back of his mind? Why wouldn't the uneasy feeling fade?

Sherlock pulled back, his face carefully blank. He sat back against the door and turned to stare out the window, but as always, those crystalline eyes were watching John all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates!


	16. The Interlude: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's dilemma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I just have to say thank you to everyone for your kudos, comments, and bookmarks. Writing can be such a challenge when you don't feel confident in your skills, and your feedback means more to me than you know, so thank you! I do apologize for the wait, also. Next week is the devilish week of finals for university students where I am and it's been busy! Thank you for your patience and I do hope you all enjoy the chapter!
> 
> Playlist:
> 
>  
> 
> [High For This - The Weeknd]()  
> [Wait - M83]()  
> [Where is my Mind – The Pixies]()  
> [Variations on a Shade - Danny Elfman]()
> 
> **Note** : I should probably warn that the first bit here is a bit sacrilegious. Would you believe it if I told you I am a religious person? Sherlock, however, is decidedly not! He was going to say what he was wanted to say even if I felt so bad after writing that part, haha! John is a bit less heavy on that end of the spectrum so it balances :)

Sherlock couldn't recall ever being a religious individual. Many times throughout his youth, Sherlock's parents would often drag him to mass, and always, Sherlock found the whole ordeal foolish. He spent that hour and a half observing and deducing, stripping down the layers of the so-called “devout Catholics”, extracting all of their secrets from the little habits that they were remiss in carefully stowing away. 

Sherlock never understood the religious experience. He found it lacking. It became tiring, listening to the priest babble on in Latin, most of which the witless church-goers didn't understand a word of. It made him scoff, want to tear at his ears. Worst of all, Sherlock loathed communion. He didn't miss the way the Father’s eyes would crinkle in apprehension towards him, nor the way that his family clicked their tongues in shame when Sherlock refused to go to his knees for prayer. 

Sherlock stopped going to church when he turned sixteen. It was about the time he was off to Uni, the youngest of his class and also the cleverest. It was dull, so Sherlock sought to set his mind free. That was when he found cocaine. 

Cocaine was a religious experience of its own kind. Nothing could make Sherlock drop to his knees quicker than a gram of cocaine. The high was exquisite and Sherlock chased it like a worshiper seeking penance. There was the one instance in which Sherlock might have gone a bit far with the drugs, took too much too fast and he was seeing the white light at the end of the tunnel, except it was the bright fluorescent lights directly over his hospital bed and not the one he was sure didn't exist.

Then, it was years later and Sherlock hadn't touched a drug in some time, but all the same, that endless bright light was within his reach. 

John. Sex with John was a divine revelation. 

Skin almost as pale as cocaine and just as sweet on the palate. John was more than a marvel, more than a wonder, and unequivocally stronger than any addiction Sherlock ever suffered. 

John was temptation, incarnate. John was the apple in the Garden of Eden; the forbidden fruit that Sherlock knew he shouldn't consume, yet he has done so repeatedly with the obstinate greed of someone who knows they're doing wrong but is helpless to stop it. John's skin tasted like satisfaction after a binge, and fucking him reminded Sherlock of a time when he would sink into a tight, warm orifice while liquid gold pumped through his veins. Yes, this was church. Dropping to his knees before his saviour, John's swelling cock resting on his tongue like Eucharist. His seed was bittersweet and heady like the wine in the cup the priest would place against Sherlock's lips. 

It was otherworldly, about as close to Heaven as Sherlock would get, he supposed. 

Sherlock paid his tithe to John's lips, curved over his lover’s body as they exchanged the blessing John had gifted him. John's semen rolled over Sherlock's tongue like silk, and down, between John's lips, escaping the soft cup their mouths formed to spill down their massaging chins. 

“Fuck,” John had whispered, and Sherlock swallowed his words with the same vigour that he’d ingested his indecent exchange with John. It was lovely. 

“Show me,” Sherlock wanted to say, to plead. “Show me the way to eternal bliss.” Instead, John opened his legs to him, and Sherlock had no doubt that he’d found what he’d been seeking for years. John parted his inviting lips and Sherlock fell into them with the unrepentant intent to partake to his heart's desire. Full lips merged with his own and Sherlock passed his hand eagerly over robust planes and pale flesh, yet to be marked. He needed this. 

Sherlock never appreciated benediction until John was saying his name, letting it float upon a low, strangled moan, or the way his strong fingers would dig into the wings of Sherlock's shoulder blades on a down stroke. No amount of prayer could save Sherlock from his downward spiral at that point, the final fall into John that he experienced when he finally reached the pinnacle of their joining. Sherlock's stomach clenched and his muscles tensed, and the adrenaline was enough to send him skyrocketing to the moon and back. John's belly arching against the line of his own body, curving like a bow with the force of his orgasm, what more could a god give him that he didn't already have?

John Watson had already given him everything.

-

Of course Sherlock knew about the tabloids the minute they were published, but that hadn't made it any less infuriating. Long ago Sherlock learned how easily the press could turn on you, as fickle as it was, and Sherlock had been a foreigner, barely touching toe to new land. The media caught wind of his tendency to dabble in drugs, and the journalists set out for him like carnivores to fresh meat. 

John Watson was much too important to be thrown to the wolves as Sherlock had been, especially in the form of periodicals with little more credibility than a penny dreadful. There was no mistaking what would happen if certain information landed into the wrong hands, and the predictable outcome if aforementioned events came to past. Sherlock didn't want to be responsible for extinguishing John's future before it even began. Not that Sherlock wouldn't provide for him if that were to happen, but John was nothing if not headstrong and stubborn. Unable to provide for himself, John would come to resent Sherlock, and that was unacceptable. 

A quick call from Billy was the only confirmation that Sherlock needed, notifying him that his PR firm was already negotiating with various solicitors and publication companies to have the tabloids removed from the paper stands. If some of it had to be dealt with underhandedly, then Sherlock wasn't above it. Usually Sherlock didn't bother with taming the media. He’d long ago made his peace with the truth that people were always going to talk; they did little else, but John Watson was certainly _not_ going to be pleased. 

-

Jealousy. It wasn't an emotion that Sherlock was accustomed to dealing with, nor was he fond of the crushing, consuming weight of it. Jealousy sat heavily upon his gut whenever he thought of John with anyone but himself; it was a bitter plague that pushed every other sensible thought into the back of his mind, for example, when he walked into John's apartment to find him _cuddling_ \- the very word made him sneer in displeasure - with Sarah Sawyer. 

Sherlock never loathed another being as much as he did that woman John often kept company with. Sherlock scorned John's history with her, brief as it was, but even as he did, his stomach curled at the scene they unknowingly created with one another. She complemented John in a way that Sherlock found almost as bewitching as it was vile. Sarah, with her glistening, sandy hair, and her ridiculous fruity scent lying with her body pressed against _his_ John. If John were truly interested in her, Sherlock snarled at the thought that _she_ had the potential to be a formidable competitor for John's time and affection. 

Therefore, Sherlock never hesitated to show Sarah just how little he thought of her, and that his time with John would not be compromised. 

Predictably, Sarah made a hasty exit and John was disappointed in Sherlock. 

Dull. 

John didn't comprehend the lengths that Sherlock would go to secure their... partnership, if Sherlock were to label their current arrangement. It was the only name Sherlock could lower himself to call it. Boyfriend was so very… unremarkable and did little to encompass Sherlock's connection with John. _Lovers_ … ugh. The only thing that came to mind with that horrendous word were terribly written Mills and Boon publications that lacked inspiration and originality. 

Partners. 

Didn't quite cover their level of correspondence, but the word could mean a vast array of definitions without inciting much curiosity. Sherlock wasn't hard pressed to add a label to what he shared with John. No one else need know what they did behind closed doors. 

Sherlock said as much to John, after a short, but heart-stopping moment when John suggested that their arrangement wasn't sufficient. 

John was panicking, Sherlock could see. The incident with the tabloids had shaken him more than Sherlock had expected. Anger was predictable, as John was a man possessive of his privacy and resented the fact that a complete stranger could profit from his lack of observation. 

Then, John was pushing him away and there was a surge of _something_ indecipherable pronounced like a knot at the base of his throat. All he could do was stare, at a loss for words in a way he found only John could make him be. 

It didn't say much for his presumed prescience that Sherlock hadn't deduced John's doubts before he voiced them. 

It took Sherlock a moment to realize that John was still speaking, though the words didn't register immediately. 

"...like you, Sherlock, and I know that you're not offering what I want with you, so I'd rather save you the headache and me the heartache, understand?"

John's words were muffled, as if he were talking through a door, and all that Sherlock could bring himself to notice was the way John's eyes crinkled around the edges in distress and the near compulsive clench of John's fists, tightening and releasing, only to repeat the process. 

John shifted and Sherlock didn't need to see the shame in his eyes to know that he was berating himself, being so predictably ordinary that it pushed away the unease and replaced it with simmering anger. What _must_ it be like in that tiny mind of John's, that he would ignore every sign Sherlock had been throwing his way ruthlessly?! 

Dismayed, Sherlock continued to watch John while navigating the murky waters of his own mind. Steadily, the fog cleared until Sherlock was left with only one response he deemed acceptable: “You're an idiot.”

Like an overtaxed dam, an overflow of sentiment the likes of which Sherlock never spoken of before came spewing from between his lips with about as much finesse as an individual suffering from Tourette syndrome. It was _hateful_ , but Sherlock would have done anything to erase the betrayal in those trusting, indigo eyes. 

John was magnificent and alluring, and had nearly escaped him, but Sherlock was going to show him how, even if anxiety was a fist lodged in his solar plexus. 

He pulled John into the room, assured of the knowledge that his… partner, with his infinite loyalty and terrifying affection, would not resist.

Sherlock bade John to disrobe just as he did, until they were standing before one another as naked and open as Sherlock could ever remember being. 

Fear: Another feeling that Sherlock wasn't accustomed to. It gnawed at his mind and turned every comprehensive thought into slimy, discombobulating plasma. Outwardly, he was calm, taking the lead as he so loved to do with his John, but he felt more vulnerable than was comfortable and John's eyes on him were tiny pricks erupting across his bare skin like measles.

John moved first, lying down over the bed on his side, and Sherlock followed just behind, admiring the gentle slopes of John's hips, the soft, downy hair over his belly and spring of curls that nestled his cock. 

That moment lasted a lifetime, and still, it was not enough to fill Sherlock’s insatiable thirst for his partner. Sherlock touched with intention and kissed with passion, toeing the thin line between the rabid need to press his body forward and sink, and indulging in the feast before him with slow, decadent pleasure. 

“Touch me,” Sherlock whispered, and John's eyes sparkled with lust and something purely animalistic that drove Sherlock to annihilation. He wanted John's hands on him, wanted to feel what it was like to be touched without hatred or fear, wanted those inexperienced hands learning skills down his body. Wanted John's fumbling lips burning prints on his belly. And he wanted… he wanted John in a way he hadn't had a man in years. 

John was suddenly over him, on him, the heat of his arse pushing down on Sherlock's cock. Sherlock sat up and took his mouth in a kiss so unnaturally fervent, sucking on John's tongue like lemon drops. 

Sherlock groaned and met John for each thrust. John's cock was blushing and tumid against his own, tears of pre-ejaculate tracking translucent streams over his foreskin. 

He’d promised no sex, but this was more than sex. This was an awakening and Sherlock was helpless to stop it. 

-

If Sherlock's past could be described as a hazy fog, then Victor Trevor was the light that cut through it with perfect clarity. 

Sherlock remembered meeting Victor for the first time in Cambridge, when Mycroft hadn’t yet had the clout that a government position provided, and so Sherlock was paired with a dorm mate as per the usual. 

Victor had intrigued Sherlock. Victor had come from a more modest way of life and so his mannerisms were different from most that attended Cambridge. While a majority of their peers stuck their noses up at Victor’s humble beginnings, it hadn't deterred Sherlock from pursuing an acquaintanceship with him. In fact, Sherlock had found Victor refreshing and a pleasant distraction from the constant boredom of trying to fit in where he would never be accepted. Eventually, after months of being near one another constantly, Sherlock began to feel things he hadn't felt before. 

It was frightening, and because of this, Sherlock never did pursue Victor in the way that he’d wished to. Sherlock hadn't understood why his throat grew tight whenever Victor looked at him with his glittering brown eyes, or why he would spend nights touching himself to the soundtrack of his friend’s soft breaths across the room. Sherlock would grow warm all over thinking of running his hands over Victor’s rich, mahogany skin, and fantasize about pressing his tongue into the dimples on Victor’s cheeks.

Before long, it was too late, and though they remained close, life happened and Sherlock dropped out of Cambridge to live the ignominous life of a drug addict while Victor graduated and moved to New York to pursue his career in the fashion industry. 

Although Sherlock wasn't the type to look back and waste time reminiscing, he wondered how different his life would be had he confessed his feelings to Victor. Would he have drawn Victor down into the abyss he created for himself? Would Victor have come to hate him? Sherlock knows that his younger self wouldn't have sacrificed the high for a relationship; not when the cocaine was the only thing that kept him grounded. 

All those things and more had come to mind when he introduced Victor to John; his past and his future. As beautiful as Sherlock still found Victor to be, John’s presence in a room was unimpeachable, and Sherlock couldn't stop looking at him even as he made a conscious effort to do so. 

In Victor’s studio, Sherlock watched as Victor took John's measurements, his mind attempting to skirt around the volley of inappropriate thoughts forcing their way to the fore as he studied the curved line of John's back through his shirt. 

“Something to accentuate his figure would be wonderful,” Sherlock commented, allowing his eyes to skim down John's body as Victor smiled knowingly over John's shoulder. John was quiet, off somewhere in his head where Sherlock couldn't reach him. “Red fabrics make his eyes look lovely.”

Victor rolled his eyes with a smirk, holding the pencil between his lips as he pulled the measuring tape around John’s shoulders. Afterwards, he shoved the pencil between his tied up locks and began on John's legs. “Yes, dear, I'm not exactly a novice,” Victor chuckled. “You've caught quite the looker, though. You know how much I'm a sucker for blue eyes.”

“Indeed,” said Sherlock, folding his arms over his chest as he paced the room, his eyes never leaving Victor’s progress. “You were never one to stifle a compliment.”

Victor smiled, his dark eyes going soft in nostalgia, before he focused back on his work. “Mm-hm, I recall you never giving them, however,” he teased. “Though, you've always been a very expressive person. You didn't always have to say what you were thinking.” Then Victor paused, casting Sherlock a knowing look that said more than enough about what they were _actually_ speaking of. 

Sherlock ran a finger over his lip absently, his eyes flicking back to John, who’d turned to face him again. For a moment, the intensity of their stare held true, and everything faded away in monotonous colours until the only thing that stood out was the deep, oceanic blue of John's eyes. 

_‘Blue always was a preferable colour,’_ Sherlock thought to himself, his brow lifting as the corner of John's lips tilted upwards. _‘I‘ve got to get you home, in my bed, and then you can smile at me in whatever way that pleases you.’_

“I think we've got everything,” Victor broke in, his tone reluctant, as if he were loath to cut into Sherlock's moment with John. “It really will be my pleasure to design of your wardrobe, John. You seem like an open-minded gent, bit of cheek, and I'm sure Sherlock will tell me you've got some sass,” he said, patting John on the back lightly. 

John blushed, but smiled amiably. “Just a bit,” he said.

“I can bring all that out and more,” Victor bragged, though with more confidence than arrogance. 

“Brilliant,” John nodded, flashing a charming smile at the older man, and Sherlock couldn't help the one that broke across his face as well, wondering at the satisfaction lying warm in his gut. 

While Ella dragged John off for a tour of the house, Victor pulled Sherlock away for a chat with a warm smile and a soft hand on his shoulder. 

“Truly, you surprise me, Sherlock,” Victor began, cutting into their comfortable silence. It had always been that way with Victor; they had always been comfortable enough with one another to sit in silence and enjoy one another's company without strain and pressure to keep a conversation up. They were both creative minds, and often, one of them would get lost in their own thoughts and think nothing of it. It seemed natural, and it only made Sherlock admire Victor more. 

Sherlock turned to Victor with a question in his eyes, but settled for waiting on his friend to elaborate.

Victor grinned and tilted his head briefly towards the hallway John disappeared down with Ella. “He's not your usual.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair across from Victor, already growing weary of the conversation. “I'm sure I don't know what you're referring to.”

Victor shook his head, the smile slipping slightly as he regarded Sherlock, the skin around his eyes growing tight. “Well for starters, he's not a slimy git like that last bloke you brought round,” Victor stated candidly, “ _and_ I don't imagine you met him at a social function.”

Sherlock shrugged, sipping his tea in lieu of a response. The last time he brought someone to Victor for a commission, it hadn't gone as well as planned. Jim hadn't been anyone's favourite. “Yes, well, if you must know, I met John through my company.”

“And that means…”

Sherlock cleared his throat and twiddled with the hand of the cup, staring down into the milky liquid with something like apprehension. “John was– _is_ a student and he interviewed me for a school paper.” Sherlock didn't understand why he felt so nervous, so eager for Victor’s approval when it shouldn't mean anything to him. He wasn't ashamed of John nor how they met,but for some reason, Victor’s opinion of John seemed important. 

Victor smiled kindly and stared knowingly over the rim of his cup. “I think he's wonderful for you, Sherlock Holmes,” he said softly. “As much as you like to fool everyone else into thinking you're some heartless blighter, I've known for all of our friendship that it isn't the least bit true.” Victor paused, pulling in a breath, and Sherlock raised his eyes to Victor, his cheeks warming under his friend’s observant gaze. “You're happier than I've ever seen you, and if it's because of your John, then I am behind you one hundred percent, my friend. You know that if either of you ever need anything, you can always come to me.” 

Victor stood, and Sherlock did too, coming to stand before his friend. Victor took both Sherlock's hands and held them between his own. “You are my dearest friend, Sherlock, and I couldn't be happier for you.” Victor leaned forward and kissed his cheek, and Sherlock felt like that fumbling teenager all over again, without a place in the world, but one friend who knew him better than anyone else. 

No, he couldn't regret the way things turned out, _wouldn't_. Even the slightest change could have altered his future, and Sherlock may never have become the CEO of his own company and in doing so, never would have met John, either. Victor’s friendship, however, was more than enough. 

Sherlock brought his hand up to the back of Victor’s neck as they embraced. “Thank you,” he said, and never meant it more than he did at that moment. 

-

That night, John truly surrendered to Sherlock, and for the first time in his life, the seed that had been planted in his chest since his first encounter with John Watson began to grow and bloom until Sherlock could hardly breath past the swell of unfamiliar sentiment. 

He’d been afraid to name it, so Sherlock did what he always had done when confronted with things he didn't understood. He buried himself in his addiction and severed all thoughts until he had time enough to suss it all out.

Afterwards, in the bath, Sherlock washed John's body with all the gentleness and knowing strokes of a man familiar with his lover’s body. John was wonderful, a perfect fit in the ‘V' of Sherlock's legs. Had Sherlock believed in a creator, then he’d be convinced that John was made explicitly for him. 

Soft, supple skin and red lips, burning blue eyes and golden hair. What more, Sherlock wondered again, could a god give him that he didn't already have?

-

The next night had started off fairly pleasant before going spectacularly awry. 

Sherlock hadn't been more elated than when he’d been presented with a John donning a bespoke suit that hugged his subtle curvature like a glove. Sherlock refused to leave the flat without a taste, and like a good boy, John gave it to him, spoiling him with luscious kisses and swollen red lips descending to his cock. 

Sherlock had buried his hands in John's hair and fucked his mouth until he couldn't feel his toes. It had been a wonderful sight, seeing John on his knees in the new clothes Sherlock had made for him, in the shoes Sherlock bought for him, and he couldn't remember a time where he’d ever been so possessive of anything or anyone. 

When it was over, Sherlock pulled John up and plunged his tongue inside his lover’s devious mouth, tasting himself on John's slick tongue, still salty with the film of Sherlock's semen.

On the ride over, Sherlock could barely keep his hands to himself, resisting the urge to take John against the seat and smear their come on the leather upholstery. John only smirked at him with that brow arched in insight. John knew what he did to Sherlock, and the little tease enjoyed it. 

Sherlock closed the tiny gap of space between them and pressed himself up beside John, before he leaned down to whisper in his ear. “When this is over, I'm going to take you home. You will not stop for tea; you will go straight to my room, strip, and then you're going to sit on my face while I eat your arse until you come. Am I understood?”

John’s chest had begun to heave rapidly under the onslaught of Sherlock's words, and Sherlock refused to look away until John finally nodded, blinking rapidly.

_‘Two can play this game, John.’_

“Good,” Sherlock stated with finality, nodding once before he’d softly kissed John on the lips and slid back to his position on the opposite side of the bench. 

Shortly after, they reached the Royal Society of Medicine. As always, dread pooled in Sherlock's gut as the car pulled to the kerb. Even after years of attending galas and fancy parties in the name of science and charity, Sherlock still found that he disliked the events with a passion. He didn't like people or being forced to interact with them, and just the very thought of spending hours pretending to be someone he wasn't made his stomach turn. 

Sherlock wanted to be done with the entire affair as quickly as possible, even if that meant getting John drunk and using him as an excuse to leave sooner than was polite. He’d made up his mind to leave directly after the charity auction, but suffice to say, they didn't quite make it that long. 

As always, Sherlock had been enjoying John's company, exchanging witty barbs with his partner that grew increasingly bawdy as John imbibed, but then Mycroft appeared like a candle snuffer to put out his flames. 

Mycroft was, per the usual, a busybody with nothing better to do than stalk his younger brother, but Sherlock also suspected that John was the reason for Mycroft’s impromptu reveal. 

Mycroft rarely attended social functions. He had lackeys for charity affairs specifically, so when his brother turned his reptilian gaze on John, Sherlock stepped forward with a sinking feeling in his chest, intent on refocusing Mycroft’s attention. 

_‘What have we here, brother dear?’ Mycroft didn't have to speak, but his words were conveyed with the crystal clarity of his brother’s sharp grey eyes._

Sherlock sneered, rolling his eyes. _‘None of your bloody business!’_

Mycroft smirked and tilted his head. _‘My, your tastes have gone rather wayward of late, I gather.’_ Mycroft was staring at John with single-minded intensity, though Sherlock knew that he was also monitoring Sherlock's reaction. 

_‘Piss off!’_

Sherlock had known that it would only be a matter of time before Mycroft would want to meet John. He’d called Sherlock the day that he and John were published in the papers, but Sherlock had staunchly ignored his calls. Of course that wouldn't have deterred his brother, but Sherlock would have held off the meeting for a better time if he could, which would have been never if he had his way. 

Eventually, Mycroft buggered off and Sherlock avoided meeting John's eyes, feeling ashamed, of all things, of his brother. It was an impossibility that John would stay with him and never meet Mycroft in all that time, but Sherlock had wanted it to be on his terms, in his territory. To have that decision taken away from him not only bothered Sherlock, but he didn't appreciate the feeling of helplessness that came with it. 

Sherlock snapped at John when he’d caught him staring, ready to leave and get back to Baker Street where he could do what he’d promised to John. 

Sherlock had been ready to propose the idea, seeing John's lips wet and shiny with champagne. An image of John from earlier that night came unbidden to his mind, his lips wet with something much different, but before he could pursue that line of thought, they were interrupted once more.

To say that he was surprised would have been an understatement, but it was precisely why Sherlock avoided going to social events to start with. 

Jim Moriarty was not someone that Sherlock had very fond memories of. Like with most of his past, Jim melded into the dark, murky waters like a creature familiar with it. 

Jim had been his very first submissive, whom he’d met through Irene. By that time, Holmes Pharmaceuticals had been going strong for two years and Sherlock felt comfortable enough in his work to also pursue his darker indulgences on the side. 

Jim had been eager to please and had enjoyed the more depraved side of BDSM. Sherlock could remember one of the wilder nights they’d shared. Jim had been a glutton for pain and Sherlock remembered the caning he’d given Jim, and afterwards, the violent sex. It hadn't been healthy, but it was what they’d both wanted at the time. 

Sherlock would also have Jim accompany him to social functions, but what Sherlock hadn't know was that Jim was an ambitious young man intent on doing what he had to to get what he wanted. Sherlock had caught on to it eventually, though it was much too late by then. Jim was networking at the events, using his clout with Sherlock to establish contacts and when all was said and done, Jim had taken many of Sherlock's clients when he’d started up his own company. He’d even had the nerve to show up at Sherlock's flat afterwards, thinking that they could continue like before. 

After that, Sherlock hadn't taken a submissive again, instead garnering a string of nightly lovers to sate his habit. That was, until John. 

It had been the ultimate betrayal and also the reason why Sherlock waited so long to take John to any kind of event. John worked for him, yes, but Sherlock would know if John were doing anything untoward right under his nose. Jim had gotten away with it, but his former submissive was also cleverer than most. It had been one of the characteristics Sherlock found most appealing in Jim, but now it repulsed him.

Jim didn't just stop with pharmaceuticals, Sherlock knew. Jim was greedy; he wanted all of London, but eventually, it would all catch up to him, Sherlock would make sure of it.

From the moment Jim's eyes landed on John, Sherlock knew of his malicious intent, and although he hid it cleverly, the jealousy peaked from behind wide brown eyes. 

Although Sherlock loathed Jim, there was still that connection there from years ago. He never fooled himself into thinking there was any sort of love between them, not even close, but the hate they held between them during their time together was so intertwined with lust that Sherlock often couldn't tell the two apart. 

It fizzled right there between them and Jim smirked, because he knew. 

It took him a moment to remember where he was and who he was with. In his peripheral, John didn't look pleased, and Sherlock thought that he must have looked a fool just standing there while Jim berated his partner. Without further demur, Sherlock faced his opponent.

Jim was as cunning as he’d always been, playing the coy, humble businessman that he certainly wasn't. It was low, but Sherlock had felt the need to drudge up Jim's nasty reputation, and he could see the instant Jim accepted his challenge. 

Jim didn't shy away or refute Sherlock's accusations, but he made sure to intimidate John and threaten to spill Sherlock's secrets. Sherlock didn't doubt for a minute that Jim would do it, but he wasn't about to back down. Jim might be able to scare his adversaries into submission, but Sherlock was never one to cower. 

Sure enough, Jim didn't leave until he had the last word. Sherlock scowled as Jim leaned over to whisper hastily into John's ear, and by the time he pulled away, John's face had gone ashen and his lips turned down in a moue of dismay. 

Jim walked away and Sherlock was left with a silent John, and a barrage of emotions screaming from his expression like neon lights. John was probably drowning in doubt; doubt about himself, doubt about Sherlock, and doubts about whether anything Sherlock ever said to him was true. 

Before he knew it, all the patience Sherlock worked so hard to perfect went tumbling, and he’d pulled John out of the building. He would write a check to the charity. He was not staying a moment longer. 

When the driver pulled to the kerb, Sherlock was ready to throw John into the back seat and drive far, far away. Instead, he rolled up the partition and let the driver carry them to Baker Street.

John was angry with him, he knew, but Sherlock hadn't been _flirting_ , as John so erroneously put it. 

It had been incredibly frustrating, not knowing what to say to make things right, unable to express how he felt, because he wasn't quite sure himself. John wouldn't even look at him. 

Sherlock growled and pulled John around to face him, trying to get him to see, to open his eyes and _see_ what Sherlock couldn't say. He didn't have the words, yet something bubbled up at the back of his throat and stuck there like glue. 

If John thought that he was one of many, then Sherlock wasn't doing something right. What could he have missed? How could John think that he was ordinary when he was singularly the most confusing, intriguing person Sherlock had ever known? How could he believe that Sherlock didn't feel for him stronger than he’d ever felt, that he spent entire nights trying to figure out emotions he thought that he would never experience in his lifetime? 

So Sherlock went with what he knew and pushed John back until he was lying on top of him, reaching for that seemingly infinite expanse of smooth skin. He was rough, and Sherlock knew that he would be sorry for it later, but just right then, he needed John to know what he couldn't get his mouth to say. 

It sat heavily at the back of his throat, but Sherlock didn't know what it was… until he did. 

When John was holding him, it slipped from the back of his throat to the tip of his tongue, and Sherlock knew.

Slowly, he slipped from John's hold and pulled away, keeping his features clear of any telling signs, though there was a storm wreaking havoc in his mind, tossing his thoughts into chaos like waves. 

In the reflection, he watched as John stared worriedly at him before turning back to stare into the darkness outside the window, the passing lights casting shadows on his still profile. 

Already, Sherlock was retreating into himself, trying to make some sense of what he felt, and how the hell it snuck up on him. John's fingers twitched in his lap and Sherlock fought the urge to reach over and grab his hand, hold it to his lips. 

Anxiety crashed into him, untenable and didn't let up until the car was pulling up to Baker Street. He shot out of the car and up the stairs, not waiting for John before he was stomping up the stairs to 221B and slamming into his room. 

He could hear John's slower, unsure tread ascending the stairs, and Sherlock locked the door, placing his back against it. 

“Sherlock,” John called hesitantly. It sounded like he was standing at the mouth of the hallway.

“I'll be out in a moment,” Sherlock shouted through the door, glad that at least his voice didn't tremble. “Make tea, please!”

John's footsteps retreated, and Sherlock walked over to the cupboard, pulling it open and pushing the clothes aside until he could reach the back wall. There was a tiny, inconspicuous cut out that gave under pressure from his finger and popped out, revealing a tiny cubby. 

And just like the addict that he was, Sherlock had several hidden spaces in his flat that he kept his stashes of cocaine. The little baggy felt heavier than it should in his hand. 

Sherlock walked backwards to sit on the edge of his bed, staring down at the white powder with pained longing. He had two options. 

One: he could face himself and try and figure out what the jumble of emotions assaulting him were, and confront John...

Or…

Two: Sherlock could send John home and get high as a kite alone, as he should be. 

The bag shook in his hand, and Sherlock realized that he was moving it, unable to still his tremors as he fought the urge to do what felt so ingrained after years of self-inflicted abuse. 

Which did he want more: John or the cocaine? 

Or perhaps, given recent revelations, which did he value more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates and excerpts. Follow me if you want to stay in the know about all of my stories! <3


	17. The Man Who Loved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Events take place that become a catalyst for other events taking place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here's the new chapter! Only a few more until the end of this book and the start of the next. Variations of Blue will be switch POV, because I really do love writing in Sherlock's point of view, and also, I think it also allows for a better grasp of the concept when you see it from the POV of both characters. Um, I didn't really like this chapter much (every author is their own terrible critic), but I would be delighted to hear feedback on it! Thank you to all those who take time out of their day to do so regularly! It's always a pleasure to read the comments and a motivating factor.
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> **Warning: heed the new tags!**
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> Playlist:
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> [The Moment I Said It by Imogen Heap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Y5Ofcjoa80)  
> [Heart's A Mess by Gotye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpN1j8R5lZ8)  
> [I Know You by Skylar Grey](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ECRRRcXycjI)

John stood at the mouth of the hallway leading to Sherlock's room in 221B Baker Street, more confused than he’d ever been. It almost seemed like his first time there, unsure of his place or what to do with himself. Sherlock wasn't exactly being accommodating. 

John warred with doing as Sherlock had asked and making tea or leaving altogether. Although it wasn't the biggest decision he’d ever made, it certainly felt as if the outcome would determine what would happen between them next. If John left… if he left, then where would that leave them? Obviously there was something bothering Sherlock, but John was so out of his depth when it came to Sherlock Holmes and feelings. Those two words together were a mix for something cataclysmic, and John would bet what money he had that Sherlock was currently over-thinking, suppressing, or whatever he did to keep from feeling anything remotely sentimental. 

That thought alone unsettled John. Even though he hadn't known Sherlock for long, it was obvious that Sherlock was unfamiliar with new emotions, relationships. It had certainly been an emotional night, if what happened in the car on the way to Baker Street were any indication. Then, Sherlock had pulled away, and John shuddered at the memory of a face wiped so thoroughly clean that there was no way he wasn't hiding something. 

John made his way to the door slowly, keeping his footsteps audible so that Sherlock would hear him coming and open the door, but it remained firmly closed. 

Hesitantly, John brought his fist up to rap lightly on the door with his knuckles. “Sherlock, all right in there?”

Nothing but steely silence to greet him. 

Another knock went unanswered, and just as John were about to raise his hand to thump the door a little louder, worried now, the front door opened with a tinny creak.

“Yoo-hoo!” 

Mrs Hudson. John had never been so relieved to hear her voice. 

John retreated to the sitting room to greet her, smiling at the spry old woman placing a plate of fresh biscuits on the table. Mrs Hudson turned to regard him with a soft smile, wiping her hands on the frilly apron around her waist. “Oh, there you are, dear. I thought I'd heard you boys come in. I've made more biscuits than the ladies in my bridge club can handle, so I thought you both might enjoy them.” She looked around. “Now where has that man gone off to now, leaving you here all alone?”

John returned her smile with a grateful, if a bit strained, smile of his own, fondness and gratitude warming the space just below his sternum. “Actually Mrs Hudson, I wondered if you might have a spare key to Sherlock's bedroom. He's been in there since we returned, but he isn't responding when I call. I'm a bit worried…”

John clenched his fingers in order to stop them from wringing. Mrs Hudson worried at her lip momentarily before telling John to wait just a moment before carefully manoeuvring back down the stairs. Still, the flat remained silent in her absence, and John cast a worried glance in the direction of Sherlock's hallway. 

Thinking back, he regretted his outburst in the back of the car, but Jim Moriarty hadn't been a predicted variable, and so John had been uncomfortable in the aftermath of their introduction. He wanted to know Jim's history with Sherlock, and why Sherlock responded the way he’d done. Something about the situation was off. 

Mrs Hudson was ambling back into the room shortly thereafter, her aged fingers folded tightly around a key. “That poor boy,” she said, shaking her head lightly, “he has his bad days, dear.” The soft, reminiscent undertone laced with notes of melancholia was oddly jolting to John. How long had Mrs Hudson known Sherlock, and what had she witnessed to make her frown that way? It struck John then, how little he really know about Sherlock. How could he be in so deep and know so very little about that person? Was he falling for Sherlock, the man, or what he represented, or rather, what John _thought_ he represented?

Mrs Hudson stepped forward and gently pulled his hand from his side, pressing the key gently into his palm in the same motion. “I've seen such a turnaround in his behaviour since you've come ‘round, John. I know he can be a difficult person, but he is a good man, our Sherlock.” Her brown eyes were large and layered with a sheen of tears as she spoke, something pleading about the gesture. His worry only mounted.

John closed his hands around the key and eased his grip from between her weathered hands. “I know,” he said, and it was true. Before Sherlock had shut down, he’d shown John all those things, how considerate he could be, how deeply he often felt things. As caught off guard as John had been in the back of the car, Sherlock's reaction to their conversation was one of raw emotion. 

Mrs Hudson nodded, placing her hand on her chest as she quickly excused herself. Before she’d closed the door completely, John could see the first tear finally fall. He was momentarily torn between consoling her and going to Sherlock's room. Ultimately, the latter won out, and John turned to head towards the hallway.

At the door, John pressed his ear against it and was treated with the same eerie silence as before. He knocked once and said, “Sherlock, I'm coming in.”

Let it be said that it didn't take much to surprise John, but doing so into speechlessness was a rare occurrence. Sherlock was there opening the door just as John had begun to turn the key, and John froze, feeling vaguely like a child who'd gotten caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. He was blocking the entrance with his body and his upper half was tilted forward so that John had to crane his neck to look up at Sherlock. 

“What are you doing,” Sherlock snapped, but the hallway was dim and his eyes shadowed as John tried to look into them. “Where did you get that key?”

John swallowed, stepping back. Sherlock sounded different, his voice deeper and more raspy, similar to after an orgasm. John couldn't think why he might sound that way, but he had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer, whatever it was. “Mrs Hudson,” John replied, the contents of his stomach churning as Sherlock slid out of his bedroom and quickly closed the door behind him. John cleared his throat and tried again, relieved that his voice remained steady. “I was worried when you didn't answer.”

Even with the moderate lighting, John could see Sherlock was fidgeting and there was a glistening sheen just under his nose, which Sherlock swiped away quickly with the back of his hand once he’d noticed John looking. Sherlock nodded and gave John a strained smile, but John merely blinked at it and stood back. Sherlock wasn't acting like himself.

“My apologies, John. I didn't mean to- to frighten you. Just a bit- bit under the weather, it seems,” Sherlock told him placatingly, though the words were stilted and gasping, unlike the usual mellifluous flow of Sherlock's speech. “I should get you a cab home.”

John moved forward, concerned that Sherlock might be getting sick, but Sherlock sidestepped his touch and was turning to head back into the room, murmuring about calling a cab for John. 

“What the hell,” John muttered, and reached over to hit the switch on the hallway light. He reached forward and grasped Sherlock's bicep and turned him, intending to observe his symptoms, and stopped altogether. For the moment, everything stood still and all John could see were two black abysmal eyes staring back at him.

Sherlock's pupils were dilated and opened wide, before he squeezed them closed, though John wasn't sure if it was from the light or to avoid his gaze. When he opened them, they were aware and regretful, but it was too late for any of that. 

With his heart in his throat, John pushed past him, eschewing Sherlock's attempt to pull him back. “John.”

John ignored him and threw the door open, his heart racing in his chest as he confirmed what he had already concluded. On the bed, on a tray, just like all the thousands of times he’d seen it on the telly, the few times he’d seen Harry, out of her mind on drugs and alcohol. 

He couldn't do it again. 

There was a line left, but it's obvious that there had been more. Tiny, white remnants were scattered across the tray, reflecting off the silver like miniature snowballs. John couldn't breathe, thinking of himself standing outside the door while Sherlock ignored him instead to chase a high. 

John remembered the tabloid, then, _The Daily Cup_ , and the accusations on the cover that he hadn't paid any mind to. And why should he have done? Shoddy journalists always lied, published anything to sell a paper, but _this_ he hadn't thought about twice. Sherlock, an addict. It had never been more obvious that there was so much he didn't know about Sherlock Holmes. 

John couldn't bring himself to turn and face Sherlock, even though everything inside of him screamed that he had to leave. He didn't want to see Sherlock spiral down the same maddening abyss as Harry had. It had killed him, watching her try to crawl out of a hole that just kept getting deeper and deeper, until she was buried in her own despair and a mountain of drugs and alcohol to make up for it. He couldn't watch that happen again. 

“John,” Sherlock tried again, though his voice was quieter than before, reluctant. The tips of his finger brushed John's shoulder and he cringed away as if burned. 

John turned to face him, his heart beating an irregular rhythm as he met Sherlock's eyes. His eyes burned in their sockets, holding back the sheen of tears that John didn't want to admit were there. He hated it, hated himself for not seeing the signs before. God knew he’d already had a crash course with Harry. 

John swallowed, and Sherlock's eyes followed the movement, his hyperactive mind unable to dismiss it. The drugs only heightened everything for him, John imagined. “What have you done, Sherlock?”

Sherlock stopped in the midst of an eye roll, his mouth open to say something snide, but the searing look in John's eyes stopped him short, and his lips snapped closed. 

John placed his hands on his hips and let his eyes drop down to his feet, feeling a dark, hateful rage crawling up his stomach, scratching against the inner walls. He didn't know if he had to vomit or scream. “Right,” he said to himself, “right.”

The night had gone to shit, of that he’d already been aware of, but not this degree. God, he was so _stupid_! Who falls into bed with a man they barely know and is surprised when they discover that there are more unsavoury bits about them? 

“Why did you do this,” John asked, his eyes holding fast to the tips of his shiny - _stupid_ \- leather shoes, Sherlock's shoes. “Why, Sherlock?” He looked up, then, trying to see past the bloated pupils to the cognizant being beneath. 

Sherlock didn't reply to John's question (plea), instead sweeping past John and picking the tray up with slightly trembling hands and jerky movements, before shoving the whole lot into the drawer of the bedside table, careful to lay it flat on the bottom. “You should go home, John.”

That definitely made John angry. In a moment he would later come to regret, John exploded. “Why, Sherlock, you want me to go so you can snort blow while I'm in bed worrying about you bloody overdosing? Hm, sounds lovely, I'll get right on that!”

John couldn’t filter his words even if he wanted to, but the malicious tilt of Sherlock's lips informed John that his words wouldn't be taken lightly. Just as easily as Sherlock donned the persona of a perfect gentleman, he shed it with ease, falling back into his familiar cynicism. “I suggest you leave John. Your presence is no longer wanted or required,” he intoned impassively.

And there it was. Sherlock’s habits were threatened so he would do any and everything to distance himself from anyone attempting to intervene with the drugs. John was familiar with the tactic and didn't allow it to deter him. “No, Sherlock, I know what you're doing and I'm not going to let it happen.”

“John-”

“No, Sherlock!” Despite the betrayal and disappointment that he felt, John couldn't bring himself to leave without making an effort with Sherlock. When it came to Harry, the one thing John regretted the most was not trying hard enough to be there for his sister in the midst of her struggle with addiction. “Don't do this; don't push me away.”

Sherlock turned his back towards John, one hand moving slowly up to his lip, a tell of his nervousness and vulnerability. Quietly, he said, “You want something from me that I'm incapable of giving.” Sherlock paused, and the next time he spoke, his voice was thick with self-loathing. “This is what I am, John. I'm an addict, a sociopath, and despite what you've come to believe, I am not a good man. I don't feel love the way normal people do; I don't know that I've ever experienced it before.” 

John, only a few feet away, closed the short distance between them, feeling his heart swell for the man who didn't know himself as well as he thought he did. He pressed his forehead against the line of Sherlock's back, exhaling as it tensed beneath the touch. 

“This is _not_ the way, Sherlock,” John whispered vehemently. He may have been young, but at the moment, he felt older than his years, weighed down with the guilt of Harry, and now his blindness to Sherlock's pain. Had it been a willful thing, the inability to see past the exterior to what dark things that lie beneath?

He willed Sherlock to face him, tugging gently on his lover’s bicep. The hand attached to Sherlock's lip dropped, and the man turned to stare down at him with a wonderfully expressive crystalline gaze. “Caring is not an advantage,” he said, as if reciting words he’d heard a thousand times before. 

John nodded, because in retrospect, it was true. Love never did John any favours; with love came pain, but that was the nature of it. “You're right, Sherlock,” John smiled, laying a hand on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's heart rate was elevated, and John couldn't be sure if it was the drugs or their proximity. “But it has its advantages. Look Sherlock, I can't promise that it will always be perfect or that it isn't messy. It is - _very_ , very messy, but you won't ever know if you don't try.”

John raised a hand to the back of Sherlock's head, tangling in the chaotic curls there before he tugged his head down. Sherlock followed willingly, his eyes slipping closed as he stepped forward to wrap his arm around John's waist, drawing him near. 

John circled his free arm around Sherlock's shoulder until they were embracing fully. 

If there was anything that John's time with Harry taught him, it was that addiction was a powerful adversary. John would never forgive himself if Sherlock were to self-destruct under his watch. The thought only made him hold Sherlock tighter.

-

Half three and John found himself sprawled on Sherlock's bed wide awake. Sherlock was sleeping soundly beside him, still fully dressed. Once the effects of the drugs abated, Sherlock crashed and hadn't bothered to change out of his evening wear. John put him to bed and as soon as Sherlock began snoring lightly, John eased out of the bed and gathered the tray of cocaine from the bedside table, casting furtive glances at the sleeping man. 

John flushed the drugs down the drain, willing the heaviness on his chest to ease. When he turned to the sink to wash the remnants of the cocaine from the tray, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. There were bags beneath his eyes and his hair was unkempt from Sherlock’s nuzzling, but that wasn't what made him look away. It was the fear in his eyes that disturbed him. 

John was afraid for Sherlock, and if he were to be honest, he was also frightened for himself. Could he possibly bring himself to go down that road again? He cared about Sherlock, maybe even loved him, but would it be wise to pursue a relationship with an addict? Wouldn't that mean that Sherlock's first love would always be the drugs? 

The alcohol and drugs had come between Harry and Clara, and his sister had chosen her vices over family and love. What would stop Sherlock from doing the same?

John turned the tap for cool water and leant down to catch the water with cupped hands, splashing it over his face in an attempt to achieve clarity. 

He stripped down to his pants and vest and returned the suit and shoes to hang in Sherlock's closet. John climbed in on the side of the bed that Sherlock's long limbs weren't occupying and pulled the cover up to his chest, crossing his arms over his sternum as he blinked up at the ceiling. 

He had so many questions for Sherlock. John thought back to the - now, highly questionable - stare Sherlock had settled on John after their row in the car. He wondered if anything he said might have triggered Sherlock into a relapse. Was it a relapse? Had Sherlock taken drugs any other time when John had been none the wiser? How long had Sherlock been struggling with addiction? When did it begin?

Not only did those questions beg to be answered, but John wanted to know everything there was to know about Sherlock. It would certainly help in the way of any future surprises. 

These thoughts kept him awake into the early morning, until his eyes burned with the lack of sleep. Truth was, John was afraid to close his eyes. He was afraid that Sherlock would awake sometime in the night and finish what he started. John castigated himself for having so little faith in his lover, but Sherlock hadn't exactly said it wouldn't happen again, and he hadn't made excuses for the drugs. Sherlock hadn't said much of anything, but John recognized the hunger in his gaze when Sherlock would allow his glassy eyes to stray to the bedside table. It made John’s skin prickle with anxiety. 

At five, John got up and made tea for one and a slice of toast for a lonely breakfast in the kitchen. The house was eerily silent without Sherlock's usual noise, besides the shift and creak of the old building settling. The man was usually flouncing around the flat at that hour, and if John happened to be staying over, Sherlock would be making as much noise as humanly possible in an effort to wake all of bloody London. 

An hour later, John was reading the paper in the sitting room when the sound of the bathroom door shutting pulled his attention away. John folded the paper nervously and waited for Sherlock to emerge, unsure of how things had changed in the light of day. 

Forty-five minutes later, Sherlock was stepping out the bathroom in a fresh bespoke suit, the smell of his aftershave trailing after him as he sauntered into the sitting room. John clenched the leather of the couch between his fingers, his hands slippery with sweat. Sherlock fiddled with the cuffs of his suit jacket for a moment and he seemed hesitant to meet John's eyes, but finally he did. 

“Good morning, John,” said Sherlock, his gaze intense as he took in the reddish hue of John's eyes, the bags beneath them and John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock deduced how many cups of tea he’d had that morning. 

John smiled, though nothing in it was particularly pleasant or inviting. “Morning, Sherlock.”

It was the most awkward that it had been since John's initial meeting with Sherlock, and it unsettled him. Now he wasn't so sure what to say. Fortunately, Sherlock began first, so John didn't have to worry.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock walked across the sitting room until he was standing at the window, pulling the curtains back slightly to look down on Baker Street. Whenever he did that, John always thought of Sherlock as a King surveying his subjects with disdain, a god glaring down upon his creations with a critical eye, but now, it had never been more clear that Sherlock was just a man; a man who was unhappy.

Sherlock was unhappy. That particular thought latched onto John's mind and grew limbs. 

Finally, Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and turned to John, dropping his eyes so that they didn't meet John's when he began to speak. “You weren't meant to see me in such a state, John. I… I owe you an apology.” 

There was a faint blush on Sherlock's cheeks, as if John had reprimanded him. “I thought I'd wake up to your resignation on my bedside table, but you're still here.” Sherlock sounded perplexed, and when his pale eyes flicked up to connect with John's, they were flecked with curiosity. “I'm not sure that I'm completely comfortable with being surprised so often.”

John had never seen Sherlock so unsure of himself, and if the situation were different, he would have found it endearing. Now, John only wanted to console Sherlock, promise that he was there to stay.

Sherlock's fingers were back to his cuffs, toying with the button although it was perfect, just like the rest of his ensemble. 

When the silence grew uncomfortable, John cleared his throat, his eyes glued to his folded hands in his lap. “I assume you already know about my sister, Harry?”

In his peripheral, John could see Sherlock's back immediately straighten, his eyes zero in on John's face, but John didn't let it distract him. If he had Sherlock's full attention, then it was all for the better. 

“Yes,” Sherlock affirmed. 

John pursed his lips, nodding down at his hands before he moved his head to stare squarely into Sherlock's eyes. “Then you know that I can't let that happen to you, Sherlock. I would-” John had to pause and swallow down the swell of emotions clawing up his throat. “I would never forgive myself if I didn't try.”

A swish of fabric was the only only warning John had before Sherlock was kneeling before him, one hand tangling in his hair to angle his face up until there was nowhere else to look but into bottomless azure eyes. When the light hit them just right, Sherlock's eyes became a stormy grey that melted John's insides until he was all but slumping forward, unable to tear himself away. 

“I'm not your sister, John,” Sherlock stated, and when John began to pull away, he held tighter, hissing, “ _listen_! I don't need you to save me, John. I'm _fine_. It was a moment of weakness on my part and it won't happen again.”

John shook his head. Hope rose and he crushed it down swiftly, because it never got him anywhere with Harry. He didn't want empty words, he needed assurance. “Why?” 

Sherlock sighed, and John felt his mint-scented breath breeze across his cheek and tickle his ear. “John,” he cautioned.

“Tell me why, Sherlock, why did you do it? Is it because of the row in the car? Why couldn't you just have talked to me? I was here!” It all came tumbling out and though John worried that it might be an invasive question, he felt that he had a right to know. 

Sherlock pulled away, but John stopped him with a hand on his forearm. Gently, Sherlock dislodged John's hand and stood, pacing across the floorboards with three short steps away and three short steps back. “In the car, I was angry with you because you played right into Moriarty’s hand. He’d said everything that would obviously provoke you, and you responded just as he’d hoped.” Sherlock stopped in front of John. “Jim Moriarty and I have a history together. He and I are more alike than I care for, but at the time it was what I thought I needed.” Sherlock lowered himself to the couch beside John and sat forward with his elbows on his knees, running both his hands through his damp curls.

“Seeing him tonight brought back memories that I'd rather not dwell on, but that wasn't what made me use cocaine, John. No one _made_ me do anything, John, not even you. It was my decision; not a well thought out one I admit, but mine none the less.” Sherlock grabbed one of John's hands into his own and didn't allow him to look away. John watched as Sherlock's Adam’s apple bobbed, a swift up-down motion, and waited in suspense for Sherlock to finish. “For a long time I haven't been happy, John. Not for any particular reason, but when no one else has a modicum of your level of intelligence, it becomes a lonely existence. Depending on the drug, it could either sharpen my mind or dull it, and then I could pretend to be somewhat normal.”

John’s heart began to sink as Sherlock continued to speak. This was the man that no one ever saw; this was the man that no one wanted to see. Sherlock Holmes was no sociopath, but even he didn't know that. 

“Last night, I'd come to the conclusion that what I may be feeling for you is something that I previously thought out of my range of capabilities. I wasn't sure what to make of it, or you for that matter.”

John froze, his back straightening in surprise. All that crushing hope came rushing back and John didn't know whether to ruthlessly stamp it back down or pull Sherlock close and kiss him until they both ran short of air. “Sherlock,” he began tentatively, “what are you trying to say?”

Sherlock's hand was warm and damp in John's, and he could feel those long fingers flexing nervously in his grasp. “I don't know,” Sherlock replied honestly. 

“Okay,” John nodded, because he didn't know either. Well, he thought he might know, but he would rather Sherlock say it in his own time. “Come here.”

Sherlock eyed him for a moment longer before closing the distance between them, his thigh pressed snugly against John's. John returned the gesture from earlier, bringing his hand up the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck. “I'm not going to ask you for promises, but I can't do it again, Sherlock, not after Harry.”

Sherlock's thumb came up to follow the line of John's cheekbone, his lips close enough to touch John's. “I know.”

“Please,” John implored, and Sherlock surged forward in response, two large hands reaching up to grasp his cheeks. John allowed Sherlock to press him back into the cushions, his hands coming up to lock in Sherlock's curls as the other man led the kiss with sweet, sharp nips. 

Sherlock's lips met his only to tear away, then back again, softer than before in a tortuous cycle. John caught Sherlock's plush, bottom lip between his teeth before he could lift away, running his tongue over the wet skin. Between Sherlock's ministrations and emotions running rampant, John's insides were trembling with adrenaline and euphoria. He could almost believe that the last twenty-four hours hadn't happened, and that Sherlock hadn't revealed a less than refined side of himself, but then the moment wouldn't be what it was. 

What Sherlock couldn't bring himself to say was in his touch, the way his body lay atop John's, the gentleness of his hands, and the fervency of his kisses. 

Sherlock hands were gripping the back of John's shirt desperately, his lips soldered to John's at this point as he licked into John's mouth, caressing. John loved the way he tasted, craved it more than any caffeine. He pursued it zealously, moaning as the hardness of Sherlock's erection pressed against his inner thigh. Sherlock grunted against his lips as John's teeth scraped against his tongue, touched Sherlock’s arse with venturing fingertips. 

John couldn't tell if Sherlock was sweating or if it was his own overheated skin, but their clothes were growing damp. Sherlock pulled away, pressing his nose into John's perspiring neck, inhaling deeply. John shivered at the cool air and presented his neck to Sherlock. John was vulnerable in that moment, offering himself up to Sherlock's mercy, knowing now that he was risking so much for someone he wasn't sure would appreciate him for it in the long run. He could get up and leave, take a cab to Lewisham and email Sherlock his resignation, but there was a thrill to being with Sherlock, a freedom. John didn't want to leave.

Sherlock sucked and bit the skin to the left of his suprasternal notch until John was sure that there was a bruise there. When Sherlock lifted his head to look at him, his lips were swollen and pink, beautifully vivid against his pale skin and eyes. 

Sherlock offered his hand to John and pulled him up until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder, and used his free hand to tame his unruly hair. “I have to go. You should rest. Here.”

“I do have to go home at some point, Sherlock. I still pay half the rent there.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if he wanted to say something else, but he must have decided to save it for a more appropriate time, because he smirked instead, and stood. Running a hand down the front of suit, Sherlock straightened and grabbed his wallet and keys from the mantle, stuffing both in his pockets. He threw on his coat, and Sherlock was suddenly Sherlock Holmes, CEO of Holmes Pharmaceuticals, young millionaire and man of certain power. 

John saw right through it this time. 

At the door, Sherlock turned one last time and ordered John to rest before sweeping out of the flat and down the stairs. 

John figured it was just as good a time as any to take a shower before returning to bed. He smelled ripe from sweat and the grime of the night before still on him. 

John made quick work of it, shedding his clothes and getting under the spray of water. The bathroom was still a bit misty from Sherlock's shower, and the smell of his shampoo lingered on the tiles, something that smelled vaguely like coconut. 

John inhaled, running his hands through his wet hair with a soft sigh. 

John washed quickly and turned off the water, grabbing a clean towel off the rack before stepping out, wrapping the cloth around his waist. He brushed his teeth and left the loo, exhausted after a long night with no sleep and his talk with Sherlock that morning. 

Before he returned to the room, John headed to the kitchen for a glass of water and froze. Just behind the partition leading out of the kitchen and into the sitting room, John could see a silhouette sitting in Sherlock's chair. 

Slowly, as quietly as he could, John opened the drawer next to him, knowing it was where Sherlock kept the knives. Easy access.

“Don't worry. You won't be needing that,” the voice called out, and John's stomach plunged. “Come, let's… _chat_.”

Silently, his dread steadily building, John wrapped the towel tighter around his waist and crossed the kitchen into the sitting room. 

There, lounging with his legs crossed and phone out, _sipping a cup of tea_ , was Jim Moriarty. The man looked up, his large brown eyes nowhere near amiable as he smiled. 

“Hi!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates, excerpts and more!


	18. The Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a decision to make. Sherlock gives him a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are people, at the beginning of the end of this book. Happy New Year to you all and I hope that it was a safe and happy one! All my gratitude to my lovely new beta reader [superoreoman ](http://superoreoman.tumblr.com) who was gracious enough to help me make this a better story. I hope that you all enjoy this new chapter and also, the Sherlock Special, then after we can have a Johnlock hell after party together :)

John sat on the couch with his feet on the cushion and his knees hugged against his chest, thinking about, well - everything. For the first time since Sherlock swept into his life, John wished for boring, mundane, dull. That would be a hell of a lot better than what he was feeling now.

His eyes felt glued open, straining and dyed a faint red, John was sure, from sleep deprivation. He wouldn't be able to sleep now, not after the unexpected meeting with Jim Moriarty. John never felt more awake.

What was he going to tell Sherlock? How could he explain that the people he entrusted with his privacy weren't really his champions? A bit of money with a sprinkling of blackmail and your friends become your foes. Worst of all, it fell on John to bear the news. John was… to put it aptly, gutted and off-centre. Things were going to change; not that they weren't already morphing into something different, something altogether new and risquè, but this would ruin them.

John had only just met Jim Moriarty the night before, and already a trail of destruction followed in his wake. Sherlock's relapse was only the first domino to fall in the spiral, but one push of Moriarty’s finger was enough to knock it all down. John hadn't been prepared.

John was angry, but most of all, he was tired. This wasn't how he saw his relationship with Sherlock coming to a conclusion. If anything, John reckoned that Sherlock's interest in him would simply wane and he would send John away, but Sherlock had made it clear that that wasn't what he wanted. _This_ would force them apart, and John was terrified.

On the desk, under the lamplight, John's phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with a text message notification. It was, perhaps, the worst time possible to entertain the notion of a conversation, but John wasn’t completely averse to the thought of a distraction. John placed his feet on the floor and stood up, willing his trembling knees to stay still. If he could grab hold of himself, then he could be strong when the time came to talk to Sherlock.

**From: Sarah**

**Stopped by your flat. Mike said you hadn't been back last night. I know it's your day off. Is everything okay?**

 

John breathed a sigh of relief. It was just Sarah. He could deal with Sarah. John closed his eyes briefly, before composing a reply.

**To: Sarah**

**Everything is fine. I'm at Sherlock's in Westminster.**

 

Sarah’s response came thirty seconds later.

**From: Sarah**

**Ooooh, nightcap?**

 

Not quite, he wanted to say, but Sarah was perceptive. She would pick up on the subtle nuances. John swallowed nervously, picking his brain for anything that wouldn't worry her, before settling on his usual indifference when talking to Sarah about Sherlock.

**To: Sarah**

**You could say that.**

 

There, that should ward her off.

**From: Sarah**

**Lunch?**

 

God, no, he wanted to tell her, if only because the moment she saw him, Sarah would know. She always knew. Then again, Sarah would be suspicious if John declined. He should have left the text unanswered, but a fat lot of good that would do now.

‘ _That's one more day to ruin for you, Watson,’_ John chastised himself. Involving Sarah in his dysfunctional relationship with Sherlock was the last thing that John wanted to do, but the woman was nothing if not obdurate and tenacious when it came to prying information out of John. He supposed he could lie to her. It was tempting, but he respected her more than to feed her false truths.

**To: Sarah**

**There's a cafe just downstairs. Speedy’s. Meet me there?**

 

**From: Sarah**

**Forward the address**

 

John forwarded the address and agreed to meet with Sarah at Speedy’s in an hour. It was already half past noon and John hadn't had a wink of sleep. The adrenaline pulsing through his veins following Moriarty’s impromptu visit was slowly draining away until John felt weighed down and ragged. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but all John could think of when he closed his eyes were steel blue eyes and a closed off mask; rigid porcelain. The image gave John pause. It was too much like the Sherlock that John encountered on the very first day, when they were strangers and Sherlock was the prickly, untouchable man with guarded eyes and a tongue full of fierce quips and rapid fire deductions.

John leaned with his palms flat on the desk, struggling to bring his breathing under control. Emotion warred with logic until it was all an amalgamation of half-formed thoughts swirling under a haze of anger and disappointment. One night, one person was all it took to tear down whatever rapport that John was building with Sherlock. He thought that he might love Sherlock, and hearing that Sherlock may also return those sentiments, John had been looking forward to… _that_ with him, and all it entailed.

John pushed himself off the table, straightened his back and dropped his chin to his chest, pulling in a deep breath that smelled purely of 221B - spicy musk, something on the brink of decay in the kitchen and Sherlock's scent all went straight to John's head until he was swaying slightly on his feet. He needed to sleep.

With the beginnings of a migraine battering the edges of his consciousness, John returned to the couch and stretched out on his side facing the back of the couch with his arms crossed around his middle and knees pulled up. His eyes felt cottony behind the lids, as if little threads ran the width of them. Even with all the noise of Baker Street, the traffic, the blaring horns and screaming babies, burnt rubber, and bantering teenagers, it seemed as if life had come to a standstill in 221B.

-

“John, you berk, where’ve you gone,” Sarah complained affectionately as they embraced, before moving to their respective seats across from one another. Sarah was always beautiful, but this time she seemed a bit haggard, though John would never dare say so aloud. Her eyes were dark and searching as she stared back, and the space beneath her eyes was a shade darker than the rest of her skin. “Mike said you haven't been round much.”

John folded his hands on the table and flashed her a genuine smile. Sarah’s concern never failed to warm him and the affectionate way in which she chided him reminded John of his mother back in Sutton. “I've been staying round here more often than not, but I suspect it won't be as often in the days to come.” John couldn't keep the discontent from creeping into his final words, and Sarah latched onto it like a starving babe as she sat forward, eyebrows furrowed in bemusement.

“John… I wasn't going to say anything, but you don't look well and you seem- I don't know, you seem… different. Is everything alright?” When several tense seconds slogged by without a response, Sarah reached tentatively across the table and took John's hand in hers. “What’s happened?”

John was hesitant to say. Sherlock's secrets were his own and not John's to tell. On the other hand, it affected John as well. What was he supposed to tell her? That he accompanied Sherlock to a gala where his evil ex-whatever also happened to be, which in turn caused him to take cocaine? Then he would _have_ to tell Sarah about Moriarty breaking into 221B and serving himself some tea while John was in the shower, and _all_ of it was not on.

The very thought made John nauseous.

All the while, looming behind every thought was the crushing burden John now carried that made his teeth grind whenever he thought of being the one to have to tell Sherlock. He really should be worried for his own future, thinking of what it could mean for his future reputation in the medical field, but all that ground to a halt in the face of Moriarty’s ultimatum. Sherlock's livelihood was at stake, and if a chance meeting with an ex could drive his lover to relapse, then what would happen if the Work was threatened?

So John took one quivering breath and told his story.

-

The silence expanded and swallowed up the space between them until the only sound that filled John's ears was his own pounding heart. Sarah nursed her cup of tea and stared back at him with lips firmly sewn shut, until John thought she just might stand up and leave. He hadn't told her everything, omitted Sherlock's relapse and the details of their sex life, but everything else, including Jim Moriarty, was laid out between them like something fetid and rotten.

Sarah shook her head slowly, clearing the cobwebs, and John crossed his arms over his chest, on the edge of defiance. He could feel Sarah’s disappointment like a physical presence, could see it in the way she refused to let the words tumble past her lips, the inward dip of her brows and the tense contraction of her jaw.

“Why am I only just hearing about any of this,” Sarah asked him, and John crushed down the urge to snap that he wasn't obligated to share his life with her, but instead, he minced his words and swapped them for something more agreeable.

“Because it wasn't right to involve you, Sarah, all of this - all of it-”

Sarah closed her eyes and sighed loudly in exasperation, but when she opened them, they were a soft, brilliant green that reflected compassion. “I don't _care,_ John, I don't. You know you could always come to me about anything,” Sarah said softly, reaching across the table to take his hand in hers. Her palm was soft and warm from cupping the teacup and the tickle of her nails lightly scratching his skin was somewhat pleasant. John hadn't realized how much he missed Sarah until that moment.

John carefully kept his eyes on their intertwined hands, afraid that she would see just how distressed he actually was. The bite of Sherlock's absence prematurely cracked away at John's defenses until he was pulling in tiny puffs of breath through his nose, panicking.

“John,” Sarah whispered, and knocked her feet with his in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. Ashamed, John let his eyes flicker around the room, wondering if he'd drawn attention to himself, but the other patrons paid them no mind. On the other side of the room, a couple laughed loudly at something they were peering at on a phone. The middle-aged woman in the booth behind them sat with her son who was back from uni for the summer. John longed for ordinary in a way he hadn't before.

This felt like grief, it felt like raw pain and anguish, it felt like loss.

“You don't have to do what that bastard wants, John. I'm sure Sherlock will figure out a way-”

Before Sarah had even finished her sentence, John was shutting her down with a hopeless shake of his head. “You didn't see him, Sarah,” John said, remembering the look in Moriarty’s gloomy gaze. John saw madness and corruption, a bleak emptiness that could never be filled because nothing was ever there in the first place. John thought of the hair rising on his arms as he sat there under that malignant stare, slowly being picked apart by nothing more than a few chilling sentences. Moriarty gave the illusion of a choice, but they sparred with words knowing fully which of them had the upper hand, and it wasn't John. In Moriarty’s eyes, he was only a pawn in the game of chess he'd been playing with Sherlock since their time together.

John didn't understand any of it, had only just heard a vague summary of Sherlock's history with Moriarty that morning, but one thing was clear: Sherlock wasn't meant to win the game and John was in the way.

Sarah was afraid for him. The bones of his fingers protested between her grip, but John didn't pull away. “John, you can't possibly be thinking of going through with this,” Sarah pulled away in indignation, her lashes fluttering as she stared at John in disbelief. “He's a madman, John! If anything, you should be taking this to the police; he's threatening you!”

John sat up straighter in his seat and looked around, shushing Sarah vehemently in the process. Moriarty could have anyone listening in nearby. It wouldn't do if he knew that John had told someone about their meeting, other than Sherlock. Still, the mother and son behind them continued their conversation and the muffled mumbling of the other patrons remained steady. “Keep your voice down,” John hissed, hugging his arms around his chest. “Listen, I don't know how any of this is going to pan out, but I've a bad feeling about it all.” There was that knot of dread swelling in his chest, and John had a spell of vertigo that nearly overwhelmed him.

Sarah opened her mouth to speak, but John cut her off swiftly, desperate to finish before he lost his nerve. “Just-... just don't be upset if you don't hear from me for a few day, alright? _If._ ”

Sarah was worried, but there was nothing that John could say to placate her because whatever she was feeling wasn't unfounded. John was worried, too. There was never a moment in which John had prepared for someone like Moriarty, there was no contingency plan.

John stood before Sarah could say anything else, pulling his wallet from his pocket and throwing a few notes on the table to cover their tea. Sarah stood also and John couldn't resist the urge to embrace her. He had to be strong - strong for himself, strong for Sherlock, John didn't know if he had it in himself to be strong for Sarah, too.

“Please be careful, John,” Sarah whispered sternly against his neck. He could feel her heart hammering against his. A lock of hair tickled his nose, and John didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

It hurt John more that he couldn't promise her anything.

-

**Text message from Sherlock Holmes**

*****

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**19.00, Angelo’s. Forwarding address.**

**SH**

John stared at the text message from Sherlock, running an unsteady finger over the edge of his bottom lip. After a kip on the couch and another shower to wash away the sensation of insects crawling under his skin, this left John with a little less than an hour. His stomach was a constant coil of wiggling, thrashing emotions all grappling to pull John under. In his dreams, there was no reprieve. All John could see was Moriarty’s dead eyes and his lips forming around the very words that invaded every thought.

**From: Sherlock Holmes ******

**I'll send my car round.**

**SH**

John immediately felt winded, unable to pull in enough air at the thought. No, he couldn't.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**I'll take a cab**

 

If he knew Sherlock, then that would make him suspicious, but John couldn't risk it. On the coffee table, there was a memento from Moriarty. John knew that he was meant to give it to Sherlock. He'd seen it earlier in the day, after Moriarty had slithered out of Baker Street and down the pavement, blending expertly in with every other walker. Sherlock would be angry.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Nonsense, John. Be ready in thirty.**

**SH**

 

Sherlock didn't understand.

**To: Sherlock Holmes**

**Please, Sherlock. I'll take a cab.**

 

For a while, there was nothing, and John feared that Sherlock would burst through the door at any moment and that would be the end of it. Then, mercifully, John's phone buzzed once more.

**From: Sherlock Holmes**

**Fine, don't be late.**

**SH**

Relieved, John lowered the phone back into his pocket and retreated to Sherlock's room to dress. In the closet were the clothes Sherlock commissioned for John, still enclosed in a garment bag. John pulled it out and laid it on the bed, pulling the zip down to reveal a steel grey silk shirt. For the moment, John relished the smooth slide of the silk resting against his skin, the thinness of it in comparison to the jumper he’d had on before. It felt luxurious and expensive, and so very far above his means.

Even though John had taken two showers that day, he fretted that the cloth would only grow dirty against his skin. With his frayed nerves, John thought it a possibility that he would sweat through the fabric. Moriarty’s lingering presence in the flat was rank and suffocating, and John contemplated taking a cab back to Lewisham and cancelling on Sherlock, but he knew that the madman would come for him.

Thirty minutes to, John threw on his jacket and grabbed his wallet and keys, shoving them in his pocket as he lumbered down the stairs. With his outfit, it wasn't hard for John to flag down a cab, and soon, they were traveling towards 22 Northumberland Street, where Sherlock would meet him.

John made it with ten minutes to spare, but Sherlock was already there, waiting off to the side of the door as the cab pulled up to the kerb. When John stepped out, Sherlock slipped his phone into one of the many pockets of his coat and bestowed John with a courteous smile, though his eyes were less than as they glided over John's frame unrepentantly.

John was barely out of the doorframe before Sherlock was approaching and leaning past him to hand the cabbie his fare. When John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock flashed him a dark look that said he would do no such thing.

Sherlock guided John toward the restaurant with one hand on the small of his back while the other held the door open for him.

Fortunately, it was warm inside, so John removed his jacket and placed it over his arm, feeling the cold air filter right through the thin fabric. The interior was dim and cozy, and soft music played over the speaker, lending the room a romantic atmosphere. The waiter greeted Sherlock by name and led them to a well worn booth in the corner next to a large window. Sherlock sat facing the front door, and John slid into the bench across from him, settling snugly into the worn dip in the middle of the leather seat.

There weren't many others around, a few other couples were scattered around the dining room, whispering over glasses of wine and water. The smell of baked bread and rosemary drifted around the room, causing John's stomach to rumble loudly over the music.

Sherlock was staring at him oddly, but just as he began to speak, a loud, boisterous voice startled them both.

“Sherlock,” said the man amiably, his expression open and happy, “so very good to see you, my friend.” The man took Sherlock's hand between both of his and shook it reverently, with which Sherlock only looked a bit uncomfortable with.

“Angelo,” Sherlock returned graciously, before pulling his hand back and gesturing to John. “John, this is Angelo. Angelo, John.”

John extended his hand, minutely surprised at the strength of Angelo’s grip, though he kept his smile up nonetheless. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Angelo grinned broadly and finally released John's hand. “No, the pleasure is all mine. Sherlock is good man! He got me off a murder charge.”

John's eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline at the revelation, and Sherlock smirked back, suitably smug. “Three years ago, Angelo was implicated in a particularly vicious murder. I proved to Lestrade that he was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.”

“Got me off a murder charge and cleared my name,” Angelo boasted proudly.

Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, preening. “Cleared it a _bit_.”

Angelo laughed and patted Sherlock on the back, the latter slightly dismayed at the contact, before backing away. “He also kept my business from going under when no bank would give me loan.”

At that, John was surprised. Sherlock wasn't a bad man, but he didn't necessarily seem like the altruistic type.

Blushing slightly, Sherlock looked down at his interlocked hands resting on the table. “Well where else was I going to get decent Italian cuisine in London,” Sherlock sniffed, turning his attention to the street outside the window. If this wasn't Sherlock Holmes he was sitting across from, John would have thought he was being bashful.

“Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free for you and your date,” Angelo stated, bowing a bit as he backed away from the table. “I'll be back with a candle for the table. It's more romantic.”

Then, it was only the two of them alone at the table once again, and Sherlock's piercing eyes cutting through the haze of John's thoughts. Sherlock was as disarming as ever, but John held fast, determined not to wilt under Sherlock's stare. The look in his eyes as they surveyed him was almost profane, and John was reminded of Sherlock's promise the night before, the one he never fulfilled. Heat pulled in John's loins and his mind began to turn down headier avenues.

John tore his eyes away from Sherlock's and instead focused on the menu, determined not to get away from himself. He needed to talk to Sherlock about Moriarty.

Soon Angelo returned with the candle and took their orders along with the menus, leaving John with nothing else to turn his attention to.

“You're distracted,” Sherlock said suddenly, cutting through the silence with his sharp cadence. “Why?”

John gave up and swung his eyes up to meet Sherlock's, immediately drawn into his iridescent gaze. Sherlock's eyes flitted between his own, processing and storing information that John couldn't even begin to understand. His lips were particularly inviting, a rosebud pink from the cool air and moist from the wine he imbibed. John wanted to lean across the table and run his tongue across them without a care for who was watching.

John shook his head absentmindedly and picked up his glass of water to quench his thirst. He waited a few swallows before answering Sherlock's question. “No, not distracted,” he replied, quirking a smile that wasn't entirely genuine. He didn't feel like smiling. He would rather be somewhere else not having to decide how he was going to explain the threat of a psychopath to his lover. “Didn't sleep very well, is all.”

“Not much at all it seems, going by the state of your eyes,” Sherlock commented, refusing to relinquish his hold on John. If anything, Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You didn't sleep until hours after I'd gone.”

John nodded once, his smile growing in amazement. It was as if Sherlock plucked his deductions out of thin air at times. Absently, John wondered what gave him away and if Sherlock also knew that Moriarty had been to Baker Street. “Yep,” he affirmed lightly.

“There's also something you feel the need to keep from me.” The omniscient bastard, John thought somewhat bitterly. “Though I don't know why you think you could for any length of time. I have my ways of prying secrets from you, John.”

Sherlock's voice dropped a register, until it was sliding over John with as much tangibility as a touch. The candle between them only ignited a devilish spark in Sherlock's eyes that hindered John's ability to draw in a breath fully. He was already half hard in his trousers, and Sherlock was running his tongue over his teeth like he already knew.

“However, that can wait for the moment, I think,” Sherlock said, pushing his fingers across the table to graze across John's knuckles. A shot of adrenaline and endorphins shot his pulse up past normality, and John nearly choked on a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock blinked and his eyes were aflame, tempestuous and a stormy, pale hue. “I've a proposition for you.”

The last time John heard those words, Sherlock was tempting him into a world he knew nothing about, and ever since, John hadn't been the same. He could only guess what this would do to him.

Sherlock finally looked away, instead allowing his eyes to fall upon their fingers locked together. His mouth opened, closed, and then opened again as if he were searching for words, as if he were having a hard time saying them. “John, I-,” Sherlock stopped and inhaled deeply before forging on. “This is something I've rarely ever done with anyone, but if there were anyone I trust to do it, it would be you,” said Sherlock. As he spoke, his voice gained confidence and speed.

“You've allowed me into your body, and now I want you to have mine,” Sherlock divulged, his chin tilting up as he met John's eyes in a steadfast manner, as if he expected John to turn him down.

John could admit that he'd thought about it before, what it would be like to top Sherlock, to feel the man around him. He'd been with woman in such a way before, but never a man. Would Sherlock mock him for his inexperience?

The image of Sherlock's long back spread out beneath him, the curve of his arse, and the point where they connected, filled John with a sense of zeal. He wanted that, guarded the image jealously because there was no possible way it would happen after John told Sherlock about Moriarty’s ultimatum.

The food arrived, and Sherlock released his hand, gesturing for John to eat as he spread his napkin across his lap and picked up his own cutlery.

John hadn't eaten all day, and though his body protested, he found that he didn't have much of an appetite. Sherlock, on the other hand, was nearly down to half of his plate, which was a surprise in itself. The man hardly ate a thing, but he seemed particularly ravished.

“You should eat, John,” Sherlock commented offhandedly, not bothering to make eye contact with John. He'd only just taken a bite and swallowed, but his tongue lingered around the edges of the fork, licking away the remnants. He managed to make it look graceful when done by any other, it would have been crude. “You'll be needing your strength later.”

“You trust me,” John blurted, but it was already out and he wasn't going to recall the statement. Just last night they’d established that there was more between them, but it didn't implicitly encompass trust. Of course with their bedroom activities, there had to be some level of trust between them, but John hadn't known it extended to Sherlock's end.

Sherlock paused, his wine glass halfway to his lips before he narrowed his eyes, giving John his best “you are an idiot, aren't you?” look. “Yes, I did say that, didn't I,” Sherlock muttered sardonically, tearing his eyes away to peer into his glass.

“In so many words, yes,” John quipped. Sherlock trusted him. _Sherlock_ _ **trusted**_ _him._ It was inevitable that they would get to that point where trust was implicit to move forward in a relationship, but John never thought about what it would be like to hear Sherlock say those words to him. His stomach rolled uncomfortably, because if Sherlock trusted him, then John would hate himself if he let that go to waste. Would Sherlock feel the same way after John told him about Moriarty?

John pursed his lips and dropped his eyes to his mostly full plate, tapping his fingers around his perspiring glass of water indecisively. “Sherlock, hm-,” John stopped, clearing his throat and steeling himself before he met Sherlock's eyes. They really were lovely in the candlelight, and his curls glowed softly from the lights outside the window, a shimmering array of green, red and blue highlighting his auburn hair.

“You're nervous,” Sherlock said, tilting his head with narrowed eyes. His eyes stood out like stained glass windows and John could see his reflection in them, jaw tight and posture, stiff. “You're respiration has increased and if you squeeze your glass any harder, I'm quite sure it'll break,” he said, his eyes flitting to John's hand - which John hurriedly retracted to swipe along the thigh of his pants - then back to his face. There was that spark of insight, and Sherlock's mouth was twisting into a wry smile. “Of course, you've never made love to a man before, so you're worried that I'll be dissatisfied.”

_Made love…_

John wasn't even sure Sherlock realized he’d just implied that they would be making love, that John would be making love to Sherlock. Not fucking.

“While I'm flattered that you're thinking of my sexual gratification, John, I wouldn't worry too much about it. Think of it as an experiment,” Sherlock’s smile faded a bit, and his eyes grew sober and intense. “I will enjoy teaching you all the ways in which to please a man without even laying a hand on them.”

The words spoken in Sherlock's baritone enlivened something inside of John, sparked a match he’d already thought was aflame. “Does that mean you'll be submitting to me,” John asked, and Sherlock lids drew low and heavy, and John knew his were doing the same.

He shifted to release some of the pressure in his trousers and licked his lips, watching with a jolt of thrill as Sherlock's predatory gaze followed the motion. Then, grey eyes slid up to meet John's stare full on. “My dear John, to bottom doesn't mean to submit. It simply means that I'll have had you in every way possible.”

“Every way?”

“Oh yes, John, but this is only the beginning.”

Sherlock leaned forward and John was thoroughly, completely, irrefutably captivated. He knew that there was something he was supposed to tell Sherlock, but at the moment, every thought fled in the face of temptation unlike anything John had ever experienced before, and Sherlock was baiting him.

“I do so love our little games, John, so I have a challenge for you. For the sake of your own orgasm, you will make me come no less than three times by the end of the night. If you succeed, well…,” here, Sherlock smiled devilishly, “we will just have to see, won't we? If you so happen to fail, then we will revisit the nipple clamps. Are we agreed?”

John swiped his palms over his thighs once more and let the words sink in. _Moriarty, Moriarty, Moriarty,_ his mind chanted, but his body begged for Sherlock. There were only so many ways the night could end, and one of those options seemed unpleasant and John would most definitely be taking a cab back to Lewisham. If John agreed, then John would be crossing a line with Sherlock that he wouldn't be able to step back over. Before all of it came to a crashing halt, John wanted the chance to show Sherlock what he meant to him as well, that way, if he never got the chance again, his lover would know it had never been just a game to John. 

So John squared his shoulders and readied himself to go forward, into the grey unknown that was their foggy future, and parted his lips:

“Oh, God, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to follow me on [tumblr ](lymphadei.tumblr.com) for story updates and general Sherlock madness! Feedback is encouraged and always appreciated! Motivation keeps the muse rolling!


	19. The Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even in this, Sherlock conquers all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thank you once again for joining as we creep closer to the end. Thanks to my wonderful beta [superoreoman](http://superoreoman.tumblr.com) for saving another chapter! You are a Godsend! I know there was some disappointment about Sherlock bottoming in this chapter, and well, I can't say that I changed my mind. Thank you, if you stayed with the story this long, but if this is where it ends for you, I appreciate your readership and I do apologize that you feel that way. 
> 
> **WARNING! PLEASE READ:** There are some minor depictions of violence/violent BDSM sessions, but it is ALL consensual and absolutely none of it is between Sherlock and John.
> 
> Playlist:
> 
>  
> 
> [Don't Worry, We'll Be Watching You by Gotye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gCuoZfZQTc)  
> [Crazy In Love by Sofia Karlberg](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7Sx7emQdMk)  
> [Closer by Nine Inch Nails](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1tOaQsNa5Js)  
> [Tear You Apart by She Wants Revenge](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxKvjCPGBuo)

“Hi!”

Jim smiled, if only to keep the startled man on edge. He really didn't see what Sherlock found so attractive in his new, little puppy, but Jim looked, all the same. Bland, bland, bland. _Boring_. Sherlock was definitely falling off the horse. Jim sighed like a man heavily burdened, because now he would have to fix this, and he abhorred getting his hands dirty. Well, he thought to himself, needs must.

“Ooh, well aren't you lovely,” Jim said drily over the rim of his teacup. He settled more comfortably into the chair, wiggling his bum just to see Puppy’s eyes tighten. “Oh, where are my manners. Please, sit. You're making me feel short,” he ordered, gesturing to the red chair across from his. This game of wits was so much better with Sherlock, and John was just… nothing.

“No, I don't think I will,” Puppy snapped, raising his chin in a mockery of bravery. Bravery, Jim wanted to scoff. Just another word for stupidity in his opinion.

If Jim's smile grew a little tighter, his eyes a degree colder, then Puppy didn’t let on that he’d noticed. “Master hasn't taught you any manners, has he?” As nonchalant as the words were, there was a steady trickle of ire making itself known. Puppy needed to be disciplined. Jim sighed dramatically and pursed his lips regretfully. “Shame. I thought we could do without all of the-,” Jim gestured wildly with one hand, still holding the handle of the teacup in the other.

Puppy swallowed and Jim nearly cackled because wasn't he just _precious._ “One moment,” Jim requested, then turned his head towards the door. “Sebastiaaaan!”

As the front door creaked open, Jim returned his attention to Puppy with raised brows, smirking in a way that he knew unsettled most, until the corners of his lips pulled back into his cheeks. Jim got such delight out of the way Puppy's eyes widened when he noticed a most familiar face. In Jim's opinion, the best criminals always hid in plain sight.

“Oh,” Jim feigned surprise, swiveling his wide eyes back and forth between Puppy and Sebastian. “Oh I’m- I'm sorr- do you two know each other?”

Because really, there wasn't a pie that Jim Moriarty didn't have a finger in. Puppy really ought to know that.

-

John persuaded Sherlock to take a cab back to the flat, taking into account the twitching fingers and dilated pupils. He didn't want to wait for the driver to come, and though Sherlock wondered aloud of John’s aversion to being driven around in his personal car, Sherlock thankfully let it be.

On the ride back, the air in the cab was charged with unspoken words and repressed emotions. More than once, the cabbie shifted uncomfortably while completely avoiding the rearview mirror unless he was forced to. There were inches of space between them, and John yearned to span them all, but he knew one touch could spark a fire and then there would be no stopping.

Sherlock was already half hard in his trousers and flaunting his erection as he sat low in his seat, legs spread audaciously. One long fingered hand rested high on his thigh, a stark pale against the coal black backdrop of his trousers. John wanted to replace it with his own.

Sherlock's head was tilted back against the headrest, lolling with the movement of the car, but in the slit of his eyelids, those verdigris eyes tracked John's every move. John was captivated by the slow bob of his throat when he swallowed, the sparse scatter of freckles on his neck like constellations; he wanted to connect them with his tongue.

John turned away abruptly to redirect his stare out the window. He was already pressing against his trousers.

Soon enough, the cab was pulling up to Baker Street and Sherlock was leaning forward to pay the cabbie. The walk inside was a quiet affair. It wasn't late, but there was no sound from Mrs Hudson’s flat, so either she was away or already sleeping. Either way, the trek up the stairs was silent and mercifully brief.

Once the door closed, however, the change in atmosphere was abrupt.

Sherlock was on John in a second, inserting his thigh between the smaller man's in a proprietary manner, his tongue sliding against John's with brute force. John had heard the phrase ‘kissing with abandon,’ but always thought it a bit overdramatic. Now, it was the only description for what they were currently doing.

John slid his hands in Sherlock's hair and pulled, delighting at the sensation of Sherlock's cock jerking against his thigh.

Sherlock groaned and tore his lips away until the two of them were merely panting, trembling masses. Sherlock pulled away and grabbed John's hand to pull him through the sitting room.

Nervously, John cut his eyes to the yellow envelope sitting innocuously on the coffee table where he’d left it. He swallowed and held Sherlock's hand tighter, allowing himself to be led through the kitchen and into Sherlock's room. Moriarty would have to wait.

-

There was a time when Jim had to play the part of a puppy to get what he wanted, oh, but it was _so_ much more than that when he and Sherlock were together.

It was during the scenes that Sherlock became what he truly was behind the suits: the sociopath, and Jim had reveled in every twisted second of it. Some days, Jim couldn't sit straight for the welts on his back, and dear him, it had been delicious.

Sherlock hated Jim, he knew, because Sherlock refused to see that they were one in the same. Jim wondered if Sherlock had ever fucked his little puppy with such passion before, whether he ever let him see that side that Sherlock tried so hard to cover up with boring titles and a trifle, ordinary lifestyle.

Then Jim got tired of playing at normal and Sherlock's façade began to annoy him. Jim wanted to see that lovely mask shatter into a million pieces. He wanted to see the worst in Sherlock, because that was when the man was at his best.

So Jim played the perfect submissive, attended those insufferable galas with Sherlock and met his bohemian friend in Kensington, and smiled for the cameras. All the while, Jim would look at Sherlock and see the man with the cane, the whip, the flogger and cheeks flushed red with exertion. Then, Jim would feel the phantom pain from wood and leather slamming down on the back of his thighs, his arse, his back, and think that Sherlock Holmes was so much better than this. So much worse.

Jim wanted to hurt Sherlock, so he made friends with Sherlock's friends, clients, associates, and when the time came, Jim spun his web and trapped them all. Of course, Jim always had his own ambitions, and he could’ve done all this without Sherlock's connections, but life was so much better when the game was being played.

That night, Jim went to him, because he could never resist the opportunity to gloat. That was the best night of his life, but Sherlock in his predictable, dramatic fashion saw the blood on Jim's back and ran like a coward. Jim laughed all the way home to the bath and toasted himself to a job well done.

Jim saw Sherlock's weakness and loathed him for it, and now, Puppy was an unforgivable sign of just how much Sherlock needed to be reminded of their time together.

Sherlock really should have known that it was unwise to keep secrets from one another, especially when Jim had the means to pay anyone off. After all, when one is betrayed, who thinks of the chauffeur?

“ _You,_ ” Puppy whispered, and it was so fun to watch the rusty gears in his little mind turn and turn.

Jim grinned. “Not that Sherly was polite enough to have introduced you, so I guess I'll have to be the one.”

Sebastian didn't have to do anything as tawdry as draw a gun to command compliance, but Jim relished the surprise on Puppy's face when he noticed the weapon in Sebastian’s waistband.

“Puppy, Sebastian Moran. Sebastian Moran, Puppy,” Jim introduced them jovially, reaching forward to set his teacup down on the floor by his feet. The floor was riddled with dust and scuffed by the furniture. Sherlock really should take better care of his possessions.

“Isn't it always funny how the people we often ignore are the ones we should be paying the most attention to,” Jim crooned, cocking his head to the side as he stared at the younger man. “Sherlock ought to know better, but my,” Jim chuckled and shook his head slowly in mock surprise, “he _has_ been slipping lately.”

Puppy, as ridiculous as he looked in his cotton towel and bare feet, was admirably steady in his gaze. “Why are you here,” he asked, and it was _so_ predictable that Jim could hardly stop himself from yawning.

Jim offered the seat again, and this time Puppy accepted, keeping his legs closed to veil his bits with the towel. How cute. “Sherly and I have history, you know,” Jim began, lifting one corner of his lips reminiscently. “Oh Puppy, do believe me when I tell you that Sherlock Holmes was an _animal_ in bed,” Jim purred, because what better way to start the conversation that to talk about Sherlock's sexual prowess. If Puppy didn't know now, well, that really wasn't Jim's fault. Neglectful masters must be educated as well.

“I was once where you are,” Jim said, somewhat wistfully, because he really did miss the wild sessions. When Puppy started to protest, Jim nodded emphatically. “Oh yes, and do you know, you have the worst of them _all.”_

There wasn't a relaxed muscle in Puppy's body, but Jim? Jim was quite at home. In fact, he had many good memories in that chair that Puppy was occupying. Sherlock had been quite the imaginative lover.

Jim sat forward, suddenly feeling the need to watch that impassive façade crumble beneath his words. “Sebastian here has been kind enough to share some.... _information_ with me. Me - Jim, _hi_ \- being the merciful gentleman that I am, decided that it would be fair to pass it on in the hopes that you'll do the right thing with said information.”

Sebastian stepped forward, pulling a large yellow envelope from beneath his jacket, and handed it to Jim. Jim received the envelope without sparing a glance for Sebastian, though he smiled down at it briefly as he unclasped the metal fasteners. “Sebastian really is the worst kind of enabler,” Jim chuckled lightly, a hint of his fondness for the man seeping through, so long as the man didn't annoy him too much. “He encourages my taste for the dramatic.” Jim didn't have to look to know that not a muscle in Sebastian’s face ticked.

Jim's smile widened as he peeked into the envelope, and in a moment of unadulterated pleasure, he sang, “I know something you don't know!”

-

His hands weren't bound but they might as well have been for all that Sherlock didn't allow John to use them. Even then, preparing to give up his body in the most intimate way possible, Sherlock owned him, controlled him.

As soon as they’d barreled through the door, there was little of Sherlock's public persona left, just a brilliant other being that was larger than life in a room two sizes too small. John couldn't catch his breath quick enough before Sherlock was sweeping back in with a crafty tongue and wicked, dampened lips.

Sherlock had shoved a devastating hand under his shirt, brushing his fingers over the fine hairs on John's chest, circling his nipples until John was pleading for more.

John, emboldened by Sherlock's advances, had dropped one hand to his lover’s messily tucked shirt and wrenched it out of the waistband as Sherlock pressed him closer and closer to the bed.

Then he had a handful of Sherlock's firm arse in hand, kneading the skin with desperate grasps. Sherlock's breath hitched against the corner of John's lips, wet and delicious, before John was being shoved back onto the mattress.

Sherlock followed him down, glaring down at John with fiery, sapphire eyes and bent low until his lips were pressed against John's jaw. “You,” he said, reverently, before reaching out with his tongue to lave up the line of John's jaw and over his cheekbones. John shivered as Sherlock's breath wisped across his damp skin. “You make me forget myself,” he admitted, groaning as his cock dragged over John's stomach as he straddled him.

John thought that in the dark of the room with only the light from the window, Sherlock looked like an Incubus, something inhuman and devastatingly beautiful. Something that could make him happy and kill him in one go.

Sherlock was off of him in the time it took John to blink, and standing by the bed as he discarded his clothes. Those pale eyes stared down at John as if he were the work of art in the room, entirely possessive and incomprehensibly deep. “Take off your clothes,” Sherlock demanded, and John obeyed mindlessly. Then he was watching Sherlock watch him undress until Sherlock's gaze dropped to John's bobbing cock as it sprang from the confines of his pants.

Sherlock blinked, and the man had disappeared to make way for the _Other._ John tipped his head back on the pillow and watched as Sherlock lost himself to all that he was.

-

Puppy stared and stared and stared until Jim grew bored (not that he wasn't already - Puppy really _was_ no fun).

Jim tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair irritatedly, because, well, to be honest, this really was _not_ the reaction he’d been expecting, but it just hadn't _hit_ yet. Oh, but when it did, Jim was going to giggle with triumph, because then he’d remember why all of this dirty work was so propitious!

“I thought you might want to see those,” Jim announced, his voice loud and boisterous in the quiet room. “You see, I always knew I'd have a reason for them and Sherlock always did have a love for all things having to do with the arts. He considered me his canvas; his best one yet.”

Puppy’s face crumbled in the most glorious way, and Jim didn't squash the giddy snicker that tumbled past his lips. “Don't be too torn up over it, Puppy,” Jim smiled, “I asked for it, and Sherly and I, as fucked up as we are, it worked for both of us, you know?”

By the way Puppy's mouth twisted into a grimace, he obviously didn't understand. Tedious. Tedious. Tedious! Boring, _ordinary!_ It made Jim so angry just seeing him sit there as if he belonged, as if _Sherlock_ would never throw him to the wayside once he realized what a loser his new puppy was. As if he was irreplaceable. _Wrong!_

John stood and threw the pictures onto the floor between them, trembling with the force of his discontent, and how poetic was that?! Behind him, Sebastian also took a step forward, but Jim raised a finger without tearing his gaze away, because Puppy was all bark and no bite.

“What the fuck do you want,” Puppy snarled, and Jim just _loved_ it.

He folded his legs and smiled placidly. “Good. Now that I have your attention, we can get to the juicy bits, now, hm?”

-

“Don't,” Sherlock breathed as John brought his hands up to rest on Sherlock's waist, but he was rebuffed with a swift order and a slice of Sherlock's keen eyes cutting him a stern glare. “Or do you need me to tie you down?”

Sherlock reached over to the side table and retrieved a bottle of lube, which he tossed onto the bed beside John's pillow. “You’re going to prepare me,” Sherlock said. “And you're going to do it exactly as I tell you.”

For the umpteeth time that night, John felt the nervous flutter of butterfly wings scraping against his stomach. He was afraid to disappoint Sherlock, afraid that he’d muck it all up and that Sherlock wouldn't be satisfied, but most of all, he was frightened of what would happen afterwards.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed his lips softly, breaking character for a moment to give him reassurance. “You'll do fine,” he assured John, and kissed him again one more time for good measure. Then, Sherlock grabbed the lube off the bed and pressed it into the palm of John's hand. “Squeeze a bit onto your fingers. It's been awhile since I've done this, so you'll have to start with one.”

Sherlock kneeled above him, his knees on either side of John's ribs, and guided John's slick fingers between his legs. John's breath hitched as Sherlock's swollen bollocks glided over his wrist, and inhaled at the sensation of the tip of his finger pressing against the ring of Sherlock's sphincter.

It was really happening, and Sherlock was staring down at him with lips pressed together and his eyes wide, but his nostrils flared and John refused to look away. John's entire body was trembling and Sherlock’s balls were sliding along his forearm as the man began to rock slowly. All John could see was him in this moment. “Sherlock,” he whispered, the name cracking in his throat.

Sherlock lifted his chin until he was staring at John under lowered lids, and said, “Another,” in a breathless command.

John didn't quite know what to do with his free hand, so he placed it on Sherlock's thigh, where it was promptly slapped away.

“One more time, and I _will_ tie your hands, John,” Sherlock warned. “I'm attempting to teach you discipline, but if you refuse to learn, I'll have to punish you.” And God, John wanted it more than anything.

John added another finger and a deep groan rumbled slowly up Sherlock's chest, crawling up Sherlock's chest and throat until it escaped his lips and into the dark room.

“Deeper, John,” he demanded, pushing his hips down further. “You're a medical student,” he breathed, his words slurred. “You should be able to find my prostate quite easily. Even just a brush…”

Sherlock trailed off as John pressed on further, looking for the gland that Sherlock always found so unerringly when John was at his mercy. John was was quickly losing himself in Sherlock, gluttonous, as Sherlock's thighs tightened around his ribs.

“Another,” Sherlock growled, leaning forward with his hands planted on either side of John's head. He was nearly riding John's fingers and John was hard enough to hurt, watching the display. John obliged and added another finger, captivated by the snug warmth of Sherlock's arse surrounding him. The man himself was nearly nose to nose with John, his eyes wide open and filmed over with ravenous greed. John aimed for his prostate and flushed with pride when Sherlock's engorged cock brushed John's belly with the strength of his arch. “Take it- take it out.”

Reluctant though John was to disconnect, he obeyed and removed his fingers, awaiting the next order. And just for the hell of it, John slid a cheeky finger up Sherlock's erection, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's.

Sherlock smirked and caught John's wrist in a strong grasp. “My clever, clever boy,” Sherlock purred, his lips running against John's as he spoke. “I have spoiled you, haven't I?”

John grinned, his fear turning quickly to giddiness and a hunger that only Sherlock could invoke in him. “Don't pretend like you didn't want it.”

Sherlock shrugged, looked up for a moment and then met his eyes again. “I thought I might let you decide for once.” Sherlock chuckled for the space of a few seconds before he sobered. “As always, the exception in everything.”

Then, his eyes darkened, and Sherlock was reaching under the pillow and returned with cotton rope. There was nothing elaborate this time. John was on the verge of madness and the dangerous glint in Sherlock's eyes was enough to speed up John's pulse.

“You planned for this,” John asked, raising a brow at Sherlock's expediency.

“I'm never without a contingency plan, my dear John,” Sherlock responded, unwinding the coil of rope.

Sherlock wrapped the rope around John's wrists until there was a foot of length left to hold. Sherlock took this and wrapped it around his own fist like a lead.

With his free hand, Sherlock squeezed some of the lube onto John's cock, cold enough to make John squirm, but the warmth of Sherlock's hand eradicated it. John was so swollen it hurt, and Sherlock tsked at him in mock pity, though a smirk lingered at the corner of his lips.

Soon enough, Sherlock was pressing back against John's cock and John was gasping because this moment was everything _; Sherlock was everything._ John's breath stuttered in his chest as Sherlock pulled him deeper and deeper. It felt like drowning, like sinking but the only thing keeping John afloat was Sherlock's eyes locked onto his, the lighthouse in the distance. Sherlock pulled on the rope and John's back arched under the onslaught of sensation.

Sherlock began slow, just barely moving his hips, giving John time to adjust to being inside of him. John was already so close, teetering on the edge of bliss, nearly ready to fall over that cliff, but Sherlock held off for the longest time. “If you come now, you lose,” Sherlock breathed.

John's eyelids fluttered and closed while he struggled to get himself under control.

“Breathe, John,” Sherlock said soothingly, pulling John's hands out of the way so he could lean down and kiss him slowly, tenderly. “Softly, softly,” he whispered.

Once John's breathing was normal and his orgasm no longer imminent, Sherlock sat up and resumed his unhurried movements. “I should put a cock ring on you,” Sherlock remarked quietly, bringing up one hand to trace John's lips, ripe and red from Sherlock's kisses. His finger meandered down John's throat where his hand stayed, loose but present. John lifted his chin, wanting this, wanting danger, wanting chaos because that's what Sherlock truly personified. “You would come _so_ much harder,” Sherlock whispered ardently. “And I would feel it all.”

Sherlock pressed down a little harder, and John clenched his fist, wishing he could touch Sherlock, but enjoying the way his lover dominated him even in this. Sherlock's fist tightened around the length of rope as he began to grind his hips into John's, his head tipped back in ecstasy. Sherlock's other hand tightened around his throat, though not tight enough to restrict his breathing, but nonetheless, John was arching up into the touch. Sherlock didn't have a hand to hold his weight, so John was every inch inside of him, and Sherlock was aiming for his own prostate expertly.

John moaned, his eyes rolling back as Sherlock squeezed around him. “Sherlo- fuck, fuck, bloody fucking hell!”

Sherlock was really moving now, and released the hand on John's throat to grab the headboard, grunting as he directed their coupling as skillfully as a conductor. They were both sweating, and Sherlock's skin glinted like jewels under the faint light, and John was bewitched as always.

Sherlock was fucking _him_ , not submitting as John assumed the penetrated partner always did, but there was no other way to describe what this was. Sherlock owned him, mind, body, and soul and John would go out a slave to him because Sherlock commanded it so.

“Come on, John, lift your hips! Fuck me,” he growled, pulling John up by the rope on his wrists and bracketing John's hips with his feet, while the hand on the headboard came to tangle in John's unruly strands. Sherlock had to release the rope in order to balance himself with one hand behind him. John's hands were tied, but Sherlock was in his lap and fucking his cock with more vigour than John could keep up with. John bent his legs to accommodate the new position and attempted to match Sherlock's pace.

Sherlock leaned forward and captured him, plunging through the gap in John's lips and plundering his mouth and every little thought along with it. It was sloppy and passionate, possessive and everything about Sherlock that John couldn't get enough of. “Yes, yesyesyesyes,” Sherlock chanted as he pulled away, his hand still tangled in John's hair. “Everything, I want everything, John. All of it. Give it to me, come on.”

John wanted to close his eyes and dissolve into Sherlock, he was so close, but Sherlock jerked on his hair when he made the mistake of attempting to follow through.

“Keep your eyes on me, John,” he demanded, his voice not as steady as before, hitching and breathless with his movements. “Can I have it?”

“Anything,” John whimpered, his eyes tight around the edges. He wanted so badly to come. “Bloody Sherlock, fuck-,” he broke off, shivers wracking up and down his body.

John thrust up into that tight heat feeling ravaged, gutted open, blown out and wished Sherlock would stop staring. He was inhuman, ethereal, otherworldly. John could smell Sherlock's sex, could see the pearls of semen on the brink of spilling over.

“Do you want to touch it, John,” Sherlock asked, his voice two octaves deeper, strained. “Do you want to touch me?”

John nodded vehemently, eager to wrap his hands around Sherlock's cock, to feel him squeeze around John's cock, to taste his come. “Please, sir, I want to, please.”

Sherlock slowed slightly at the words, looking back at John beneath his lashes, his hips now a slow, seductive circle. “You're such a good boy, John, my good boy. I think you've earned it,” Sherlock said, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled down indulgently at John. Sherlock made quick work of the rope and tossed it somewhere in the room without looking. Then, he leaned back on his hand and waved a lazy hand at John to do as he pleased.

The first stroke dragged a huff of air from Sherlock's throat, then again on the second before it elevated to a choked gasp and Sherlock began to move again, sinking down onto John's cock and then up into his hand. John was fast approaching delirium under Sherlock's pace. The man began to move erratically, and John knew he was close to reaching his peak. John wanted the piquant flavor of Sherlock's semen on his tongue, on his chest, in his throat.

Sherlock watched him even as his eyelids drooped drunkenly with the pleasure of his prostate being rammed repeatedly and his impending orgasm. “I'm going to come,” he rumbled, and John tightened his fist around Sherlock's cock and let Sherlock continue to use his pliable body.

John panted, so very, very close, “God, Sherlock, please…”

John began to pull Sherlock’s cock in earnest until Sherlock was buckling over him, his long upper half nearly draped over John as tremors wracked through his body. “John, JohnJohn, _uh,_ ” Sherlock recited mindlessly. His semen was rich and warm between their sweaty chests, and John could smell the tangy scent of it, his mouth watering.

John hadn't come yet, and he was desperately hard with Sherlock wrapped around him, so it was impossible to withhold his whimper when Sherlock climbed off of him.

“Patience, John,” Sherlock said, and then ran a finger through the come on John's chest. “You want to taste it,” he deduced, placing his wet fingers over John's lips. “Open for me.”

John stared coyly up at his lover and parted his lips, watching as Sherlock unconsciously mimicked the action. Sherlock lightly placed his finger against John's tongue, his eyes narrowing at John intensely, depthless and prurient.

John closed his mouth around the finger and his eyes fell shut blissfully. Sherlock's hand was rubbing circles over his belly and then down to his straining erection. It wasn't going to take long. Not with Sherlock staring so closely at him and come-soaked fingers resting against his tongue.

Sherlock pulled his fingers free and replaced it with his tongue, tasting himself on John's lips, and glided his hand down John's cock once, twice, three times until John was descending into a space he hadn't been in before. He had no control over it, like his body was falling away, as if he were floating. Everything dropped away but Sherlock, and John's orgasm was punching through him with unequivocal force. He was shivering all over and distantly he could hear Sherlock soothing him, speaking softly into his ear.

When he came to, the white around his vision dimmed until he could see clearly again. His toes were curled to the point of pain, and Sherlock was running his hands through John's hair comfortingly.

_Bloody hell…_

“All right,” Sherlock asked, once John was firmly ensconced in the present once again, his eyes sweeping over John's face.

John nodded, exhausted and sore, for some odd reason. “M’fine,” he slurred, still trying to bring his breathing under control. “That was… I honestly don't have any words for it.”

Sherlock leaned down and kissed his forehead softly, and pulled away a bit to stare down at him, their noses nearly touching. “You did very well, John,” Sherlock praised him, and John blushed, feeling a mix of pride and bashfulness. “You've made me quite proud.”

It was the highest compliment that Sherlock had ever given him, and John relished it like a good cup of tea, letting the words play over in his mind.

“Don't fall asleep,” Sherlock said. “You've two more chances to make me come.”

John closed his eyes and prayed for mercy, because he knew that Sherlock would show none whatsoever.

Soon, he thought to himself firmly, he’d tell Sherlock soon.

-

The pictures scattered on the floor were several years old, but clear enough. A bruised back, bright red welts, Jim's back and thighs after a session with Sherlock. Jim really did think them beautiful, but as always, one would look at them and get the wrong idea. Jim couldn't complain, and for once, he counted on the stupidity of the masses for his little game.

What the people would say if they knew Sherlock Holmes, genius prodigy, often rude but mysterious CEO of a Fortune 500 company was a sadomasochist. Jim could just see the papers now, and Puppy... oh, Puppy wouldn't be spared, either.

And the tapes that lovely Sebastian had procured from his pseudo-gig as Sherlock's chaffeur. All those compromising conversations between Sherlock and his little puppy. He ought to have known that someone was _always_ listening.

But Jim was not so unfair that he wouldn't give Sherly the chance to redeem himself. No, endgame was the two of them together again, and little Puppy was _in the way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for status updates and general Sherlockian madness!


	20. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confronts John.

In the bedroom, Sherlock was a formidable lover, demanding, thrilling, mesmeric, and enchanting John beyond veneration. The night stretched on past midnight, and the quiet moments in between play were interspersed with teasing caresses and soft spoken words under a blanket of darkness. It was perfect; too perfect. Although John succeeded in bringing Sherlock to an orgasm twice that night, he never did get the chance to complete Sherlock's challenge before things went hopelessly awry.

The third round of play was more sensuous than the first and second, slow and exquisite. This time, John was properly tied, his arms and legs tugged on either side of him and tied to the bedposts. Sherlock brandished the riding crop like an extended appendage of himself, his eyes alight with something more than lust. The first two times were only the beginning, John had come to understand, something to whet Sherlock's appetite, but this… _This_ was what the man _really_ wanted. 

Sherlock - graceful, inviting, refined, even in his nakedness - stared down at him with an incalculable gaze and brushed the tip of the crop over John's sensitive nipples, pink and swollen from Sherlock's teeth and tongue. 

Sherlock had made good on his threat to place a butt plug inside of him, so John was keenly aware of the hardness between his arse cheeks as Sherlock trailed the crop down his belly, eschewing his cock to brush lightly over his bollocks. John gasped at the cool touch of leather against his skin, the trail tingling pleasantly in the wake of the crop.

Perhaps John should have been paying closer attention, maybe he might have seen Sherlock's stormy gaze settle intensely on him, colder than it had been in weeks.

"Jim Moriarty was here today," Sherlock stated calmly, assuredly, as if he were only commenting on the weather. The minute Sherlock had begun to speak, John could feel his breath lock up in his chest and his bare body go cold in realization. John tensed, and closed his eyes tightly, angry with himself for withholding the information in anticipation of sex. Stupid, _stupid_. He was afraid to open his eyes and see that steely gaze directed at him, untrusting and devoid of affection. 

_Thwap!_ "Open your eyes; look at me!"

The sting of leather glancing off the skin of his outer thigh was enough to startle John into attention. His eyes flew open and his body jolted as he regarded Sherlock with something like surprise and desperation. 

_Thwap!_ This time, on the sensitive flesh of his inner thigh, where the skin was surely glowing rouge. John gasped and squeezed his eyes shut briefly, before refocusing on the man pacing slowly around the bed.

The post-sex haze had vanished and all that was left was the porcelain-faced man watching him back with flat, cerulean eyes. "I _did_ tell you my brother held a minor position in the government, and along with that, my own security detail is quite competent. Did you think that I wouldn't know the moment an intruder stepped foot into Baker Street?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his head tilted the slightest bit as he stared down at John sternly. John squirmed under the hard gaze and gripped the ropes leading up to the bed posts nervously. "And you thought to keep this from me."

"Sherlock-" _Thwap!_ "Ah!" 

"Don't speak," Sherlock ordered, still in that frighteningly serene cadence that made John's jaw click shut in suspense. 

Sherlock returned to trailing the smooth, chilly tip of the riding crop down John's leg, over the side of his calf and meandered down to the sole of John's foot. Sherlock's eyes followed the movement, leaving John to shiver amidst the chills his pale gaze provoked. "I received the call in my office and instructed my detail to standby because Moriarty is too clever to snatch you up from Baker Street in broad daylight. As much as others look at you and see a boy, I know better than to underestimate you, and I'm confident that Moriarty knew the same. So I allowed his little game in the hopes that you would report to me immediately after his departure." Sherlock dug the crop into his instep before continuing, his words tinged with a bitter inflection. "And you didn't."

 _Thwap!_

John gasped and arched against the mattress as another strike landed on his inner thigh again, this time, falling close enough to his cock to raise alarm. The pain was bearable, but not the look of anger and disappointment in Sherlock's eyes, so John turned his own away, only to be punished with another sharp sting of leather on the side of his buttocks. "I said _look at me_ ," Sherlock hissed, and suddenly, his face was hovering above John's, wild-eyed and deliciously rakish even in displeasure. His hair stood up from where John's hands pulled through it repetitively throughout the night, and the shifting colour of his irises was damaging. John hated that he wanted Sherlock even more like this; unstable, dangerous, untamed.

Unwittingly, Jim's words came trickling back into his mind, as unwanted memories were wont to do, at the very worst time. 

_"Oh Puppy, do believe me when I tell you that Sherlock Holmes was an animal in bed."_

John stared back at Sherlock and wondered how he had ever missed it. This, what they were doing, it was child's play for Sherlock. John could see it swirling in his lover's eyes, the irritation, the voraciousness, proof that there was an itch that John was not scratching for him. Ropes and riding crops were tickles for Sherlock, but what Jim had shown him, that was what Sherlock wanted. And John was not so sure, then, that he was safe anymore. 

_"...and do you know, you have the worst of them all."_

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he pulled away slowly. John was sure that Sherlock had seen the burgeoning fear. 

"He didn't threaten your life, or you would have informed me at once. Surely even you are not that much of a fool to keep something like that a secret. Something that would frighten you, something to scare you away. Jim always was the possessive sort and he knows that I've grown tired of his games."

Sherlock crossed his arms and brought a finger to his lips, stuttering taps over the plush flesh beneath as he paced the room with distant eyes. "It's obviously got to do with me, seeing as you sought to spare my " _feelings_ " and planned accordingly. At dinner, you displayed signs of dishonesty, unable to meet my eyes, dilated pupils, which wouldn't be reasonable seeing as we weren't yet engaged in any sort of sexual play; you also lick your lips habitually whenever in stressful situations."

Sherlock stopped and turned to John in one smooth motion, his eyes as cold as a glacier. "Let's not forget your reluctance to accept my hired car as a means of transportation, which you've failed to refuse before, so I'm assuming you've made the acquaintance of Sebastian Moran."

John huffed a breath, unsure if he wanted to laugh or cry, or struggle against his restraints, because really, between Sherlock's monologue and the turn this night had taken, John _really_ wanted his hands free. "Wait, you _knew_?"

"Quiet," Sherlock snapped, "I'm thinking. Honestly, John, of course I knew. I can deduce a man's career by the wrinkles in his shirt, do you honestly believe that I wouldn't notice a spy in my midst? Truly, how lovely it must be to have such a tiny little mind. Keep your enemies close, isn't what they always say?"

John growled and closed his eyes for a moment, counting to three, because if he didn't, John thought he might just say something that he would regret. Besides, it wasn't as if he was entirely in the right at this particular moment. Instead, John said, "Untie me, please."

But Sherlock kept talking as if he hadn't heard a word. 

"No, in order for you to keep this from me, it had to be something that you thought would hurt me, personal of course, because Moriarty is nothing if not precise. He knows that the only thing that truly matters to me is the Work, so it would be along the lines of sabotage.

However, John hadn't heard anything past, _"the only thing that truly matters to me is the Work."_

So that was it, then; the words straight from the horse's mouth. The sting of the words were harsher than even John had expected, and Sherlock seemed not to notice the effect they had on John. Sherlock resumed his soliloquy without so much as a glance in John's direction. It was as if someone had a hand in John's stomach, squeezing and scratching at everything. 

"Sherlock," John said quietly, "let me up, please." He wasn't even sure Sherlock heard at all because the man just kept right on going until he froze mid-stride. 

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, and turned on John fiercely, throwing the crop to the floor as he bent over John's recumbent body. "Where are they," he snapped, and before John could open his mouth to say, Sherlock asked him again, sharper this time. "Where are the pictures?"

John swallowed. He felt gutted, absolutely turned inside out, but Sherlock didn't seem to notice, which was odd for a man who was said to know everything. "On the coffee table; yellow envelope," but Sherlock was already flying out of the room.

John squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach fluttering uncomfortably as he lay there bare and forgotten about, exactly the way Jim Moriarty wanted him. Because if John hadn't known any better, he would say that the night turned out exactly as the vile man planned for it to. John felt like a pawn in a game of chess. This was foreplay for Sherlock and Jim, and John was just the unfortunate bloke who overestimated his position in Sherlock's life and paid all the more for it. 

"Quite a desperate bid for my attention, Moriarty," Sherlock was mumbling to himself as he returned to the room. With a deft flick, the envelope landed on the bed between John's splayed legs, the pictures spilling out and their pointy ends stabbing John's flesh. Sherlock undid the knots on the bed posts quickly while muttering an unapologetic, "My apologies, John, we will have to revisit this at another time. Stay here; sleep. We have much to discuss in the morning."

No sooner than John's appendages were free, then Sherlock was picking up the photos and retreating, without so much as a glance in John's direction. 

For a moment, John sat there rubbing his wrist, unsure what to say or do. On the one hand, guilt plagued him like a virus, and John thought that he might just deserve never sharing a bed with Sherlock again, to have kept something so important to himself because there was a chance that the sex might just be mind blowing. Not only that but Sherlock had trusted him enough to share his body with John, to make himself vulnerable in ways he was obviously not comfortable with. And John had taken, knowing that he had a secret that could ruin it all. On the other hand, John felt bitter rage pooling in his gut. 

While Sherlock had given him his body, John had been doing the same for a time now, and to be cast aside so frivolously was terribly disheartening. It was everything he dreaded. John removed the butt plug, wincing as he did so, and fell back onto the mattress, curling onto his side and holding his arms around himself; holding himself together because Sherlock Holmes may have just broken him.

-

Morning came all too soon and John awoke feeling just as groggy as if he hadn't slept a wink. The light that filtered through the window was pale and grey, lending the room a melancholy ambience. The spot next to John was cold and unruffled. He ignored the throb in his chest and sat up slowly, rubbing the rheum from his eyes with the palms of his hands. It was Tuesday, meaning he had a shift at the office, so John swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood on shaky legs. The room was cool, and despite his occupancy, felt unused and unwelcoming without Sherlock's presence. 

John left the room and slid into the bathroom without so much as a word of greeting to Sherlock, though there was no sound from the rest of the flat to tell if Sherlock was even in residence. John made quick work of his morning ablutions and returned to the room where some of his clothes were in Sherlock's wardrobe, including the tailored pieces from Victor. 

John chose a pair of dark trousers and a seafoam green jumper to wear over his vest. He didn't have much time to start the kettle, so John figured that he would make a cuppa once he made it to the office. The traffic was just beginning to thicken, John noted, as he glanced out of Sherlock's bedroom window, his heart beating quickly as he attempted to put off the inevitable confrontation with Sherlock. 

Inhaling deeply once, John grabbed his keys and wallet off the bedside table and stuffed them in his pocket before heading out the door. 

When John emerged from the hall, he saw that Sherlock was already fully dressed, one leg primly crossed over the other in his armchair, phone in hand. Sherlock glanced up and spared John a cursory look before turning his attention back to his phone. 

"Have a seat, John," he said without preamble. 

John swiped his hands down the front of jeans and hesitated momentarily before skirting around the back of the chair and into the seat. "I uh, should get to the office to open up," said John, hoping to put off the conversation at least until he had his bearings, but the set of Sherlock's mouth, when he finally deigned to look up from his phone, brooked no argument. 

"That won't be necessary, John," Sherlock stated, and John's stomach dropped in horror. Was Sherlock planning on firing him? "The front desk is covered for the moment, but I feel that this conversation is long overdue."

 _‘This is where it ends,'_ John thought, furious with himself, with Jim Moriarty, with Sherlock. He felt sick and angry, and the two didn't mix well because John didn't know if he was going to vomit or yell at Sherlock. The man was scrutinizing him closely, his fingertips pressed together just under his chin. 

Before he could go further, John stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. "Look, Sherlock, just- don't. I'll spare you the time and just-," John turned halfway as if to leave and hesitated. "Listen, I wanted to apologize, for not telling you about the-" John gestured to the coffee table where the image of Jim's bruised back glared up at him, pale and barbaric. Sherlock had done that to him because it was what he liked, and because it was also what Jim liked. "I think it's- it's entirely appropriate that you made this decision. I mean I-"

Sherlock was sitting forward now, perched on the edge of his seat and gripping the arms of his chair with enough force to press indentations into the leather. His face was contorting into something impatient and snarling, violent as his eyes flamed. At seeing this, John promptly cut his speech short and clamped his lips shut, swallowing nervously. " _Sit. Down._ Now," Sherlock growled through gritted teeth.

John complied quickly, watching as Sherlock took a few calming breaths and closed his eyes briefly. When they opened, Sherlock appeared as composed as if he'd never moved, except that his body stayed stiffly propped up in his chair. "If you're quite finished, John, we will continue," he muttered irritably, his voice pitched to a low timbre. 

"Now," he began, his hands resuming their previous pose beneath his chin. "I thought that given our time together and the activities therein, that we'd established a level of trust with one another. Why do you feel that you couldn't come to me with this right away, John?"

Great, John couldn't help but think to himself, now Sherlock wanted to have a heart-to-heart with him, and the worst part about it, was that John was still smarting from the night before, still burning with the hurt and anger of knowing that no matter what he did for Sherlock, he wasn't truly relevant.

 _One of many_ , isn't that what Moriarty said? 

John smiled bitterly, the rest of his words lying heavy on his tongue. "Because," said John, "I thought that it might hurt you."

Sherlock scoffed in disbelief, but his eyes were crystalline beneath his lashes. "When have you ever known me to need coddling," he spat venomously.

John looked away, ashamed, because it was true. Sherlock didn't need coddling, but then why had he done it? If John were honest with himself, he could admit that maybe he'd been a bit frightened of what would happen after. "I thought that-"

"You _thought_ , yes, John, not your strong suit, so let's leave the thinking to me next time, shalll we?"

John snapped. It was enough that he'd spent a restless night sweating over what would happen next with the echo of Sherlock's words swirling in his head over and over. He'd mucked it all up, yes, but Jim Moriarty was not _his_ shadowy past. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm sorry for caring fuck all about you, but I guess I should have known, seeing as you're a selfish cock whose only thought is of himself and "the Work". Perhaps I should leave you to that, hm?"

Sherlock reared back, his clear eyes widened in offense and anger. Then, he blinked and though his eyes still blazed heatedly, his features were perfectly blank. "You're an insecure, ignorant foolish child, John Watson."

"Yes," John stood for the last time, his arms held stiffly by his sides, hands fisted as he struggled to breathe past the thudding in his chest, "and to think that someone like you could actually feel anything. You… machine," he whispered angrily, unable to explain why his ears buzzed and the space in his chest compressed. 

Sherlock stood, also, and stepped forward until there was less than a foot of space between them. "I told you before, John, you agreed to this even as I warned you that nothing came before the Work. You knew and you agreed," Sherlock breathed furiously, reaching forward to grip John's wrist in a tight hold. John allowed this contact, but kept his eyes down and head angled away. If he looked up, if he stared into Sherlock's eyes, John would relent, and he didn't want to. "John, look at me."

Unable to refuse Sherlock or himself, John peered up at his lover from beneath his brows, breathing heavily through his nose, forcing himself to remain steady. 

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock leaned close until their lips were merely hair's breadth away, and Sherlock's nose was alongside his own. "I don't care for Jim Moriarty or his lowbrow tactics, and neither should you, but _this_ ," Sherlock said sotto voce, and tightened his hold on John's wrist, though not enough to hurt but to bring attention to, "is why I never let my heart rule my head." Sherlock's thumb skimmed over his pulse in a delicate press, and John was sure Sherlock could hear John's heart thumping aloud. " _This_ is why I never get involved."

John was panting, his shoulders rising and falling, and Sherlock's eyes were flitting between his lips and eyes, his expression, an unpredictable tempest. "Then why am I here," John asked in one quivering breath.

Sherlock froze, mulling the thought over, while his eyes moved between John's, searching. His eyes narrowed and the small, horizontal divot on the bridge of his nose appeared as it always did when Sherlock was frustrated. Sherlock pressed his lips together and tore his eyes away briefly. When Sherlock's gaze found John's again, his eyes were aflame with determination and resentment. "Because I… You seem to have-" 

Sherlock paused, and shifted on his feet, pulling his hand away from John's wrist to run his fingers through his hair in exasperation. He growled at himself, annoyed, before seeming to reign in his vexation. "What I mean to say is, you mean something to me, John, more than you give yourself credit for, in any case." 

And there it was. John meant something to Sherlock, so why did John feel as if he'd been jilted? Maybe because he'd thought that it was possible that while he was falling, so was Sherlock. The man had certainly led him to believe that it was possible. Then, John thought about the pictures, about Moriarty's words, thought about what he couldn't give to Sherlock. 

_One of many._

_...the worst of them all._

John would never be able to give him that. And John didn't take Moriarty for a bluffing man; if John stayed, those pictures would be sent out to every media outlet in England, and no amount of PR money could buy out every single journalist in the country with a story like the one Moriarty would give them. The decision was instantaneous.

"I don't want this, Sherlock, any of this," John stated quietly, definitely. "I'm not-," John nearly choked on the lie, but he had to say the words, even if each one carved bloody lines down his chest. "I'm not in love with you."

John heard Sherlock's breath catch, nothing so dramatic as a loud inhalation, but a tiny snatch of air that John didn't need to hear to know that Sherlock was well and truly surprised; hurt. 

John had to remind himself that he was doing this for Sherlock, for the Work, Sherlock's reputation, _his_ future, _himself_. Sherlock didn't seem to care about Moriarty's threat, but John keenly remembered the man's final diatribe before he left 221B

 _"Puppy, we both know how stubborn our little master can be, so I fear you'll have to be the one to make the tough calls." Moriarty flashed his little smug, hair-raising, and shrugged. "It will break him, yes it will, because look how he_ cares about you _," Moriarty sneered._

_"When those pictures go public, whose going to want to do business with a man like that. Scandal, phew!" Moriarty swiped the back of his hand across his forehead dramatically and flicked it away. "What dreadful business, am I right?"_

_"And he will_ hate _you, and it will be lovely to watch him burn you both to cinders. I won't have to burn the heart out of him, because without his precious company, Sherlock would do it for me. So do yourself a favour, darling. Spare us this whole, awful mess and get lost, or you will burn. I promise, puppy. I promise. And Sherlock, too."_

To Sherlock, it was just a game. It happens often that a man with the means can make something like this go away, but Moriarty didn't mean it to. It wasn't a game, and John wasn't a pawn piece, and he hated that Sherlock would probably never understand why John was doing what he was. Because John loved him and Sherlock would never even come close to feeling that. 

"You're lying, why are you lying," Sherlock suddenly asked, his voice dipped low and unsteady, lacking its usual confidence as his hands came up to grip John's shoulders. John attempted to back away, but Sherlock only held him tighter in his grasp. " _Liar_ ," he breathed. "You can't even look at me."

 _Liar_ , the word settled at the bottom of his stomach, a cold, hefty weight.

"I have to go, Sherlock," John lifted his hands and gently pried Sherlock's spindly fingers off his shoulders. His skin prickled where they touched, and John had to force himself to let go or else he'd never leave. He turned to the door.

Every stride away from Sherlock felt like kilometres between them.

"John," Sherlock whispered, and the word carried everything that John didn't want to see in Sherlock's expression. "John," he said louder, and his footsteps carried him closer. "John, don't-"

John's hand was on the doorknob and sod it all, if he turned around, Sherlock would see that he was just as torn in two. 

John walked through the open door and refused to look back. 

"Coward," Sherlock yelled at his retreating back. "Coward! _Liar_!"

Something crashed in 221B as John clamored down the stairs with blurry eyes and panting breaths. He felt empty. 

" _Liar_!" _Crash_! 

Mrs Hudson was just poking her head out of 221A as John reached the bottom of the stair, and John nodded a goodbye as the old woman flinched and placed a hand over her mouth at another loud crash from the upstairs flat. 

John thought that he'd been so totally wrong, that he didn't read between the lines, because there's no way Sherlock could not have loved him back. There was no feigning heartbreak, and that one word - _liar_ \- said it all. 

The word would follow him home to Lewisham, and from there to the train station.

-

John's parents met him at the train station with wide smiles that slipped away once they'd caught a glimpse of their haggard son. His eyes were red and puffy and the proof of sleepless nights still lingered in the darkened skin beneath them. 

His mother came forward first and folded him in her arms, and John could do nothing but melt into the embrace and hold her back just as tightly, because at the moment, it was the only thing keeping him together. 

"Johnny," Julia breathed quizzically, as she rubbed a hand in slow circles over his back. "What's happened?"

John buried his nose in the warm space between her shoulder and neck and breathed in his mother's scent, needing the familiarity. Suddenly, an extra pair of arms were around him and John couldn't even try to pretend any longer. As embarrassing as it should have been to do in public, John cried. His shoulders shook and his body trembled, but the sounds wouldn't leave his throat. Just light puffs of air that glanced off his mum's shirt and back onto his face, where it cooled the tears. 

"Come on, let's get you home," said Rupert.

-

Lunch was a quiet affair with only the scrape of metal on porcelain to fill the silence. His parents didn't ask anything other than after John's health, but once they were sure that he was physically sound, they didn't push for more information. 

_Liar._

_You can't even look at me._

Sherlock's words washed over him like dirty water, gritty and tainting. The terrible thing about it all was that Sherlock was right. John _was_ a liar; he _was_ a coward. John did love Sherlock, he'd known that now for weeks, but what he hadn't been counting on was Moriarty and what he brought about in Sherlock. The man could pretend not to be intrigued, but John thought of the night before, the excitement in Sherlock's eyes right before he left the room. He was being threatened with losing his reputation, his career, his livelihood, and yet, this was the game he played with Moriarty. 

What was worse, Moriarty had been correct. He would have released the pictures, the tapes, all of it, and Sherlock would have lost everything. Then, eventually, Sherlock would come to resent John, to hate him for being the exception, for being the blinders. Sherlock would hate him for being a distraction, for making him _feel_ , and John would accept it all because he made the wrong choice. 

Either way, Moriarty would have gotten what he wanted, and Sherlock would suffer in both situations. Ashamed, John excused himself from the table and retired to his old room, exhausted. 

His phone had been silent since his departure from Baker Street, not that John expected to ever hear from Sherlock again. It would serve him right if Sherlock never thought of him again, but John knew that wasn't going to happen. He knew that their time together would be just as ingrained in Sherlock's memory as it was in his own. 

John curled up beneath the blanket and closed his eyes, wishing away the echoes of betrayal in Sherlock's eyes and the ghost of his desperate hands grabbing for John. 

He fell asleep against a damp pillow.

-

**From: Sarah**

**Hey, John. Haven't heard from you. I know you said give it a couple of days, but I'm really worried about you. Call me when you can.**

-

**From: Mike S.**

**John, hvn't seen you in a few, mate. Just wondering if u evr plan on coming bck! I miss our pub nights**

-

**From: Unknown**

**Hello, puppy! Hope you don't mind. I got your number from Sherlock's phone. He wore himself out, but I'm sure you don't want the details. Let's just say, he's still every bit the animal I remember! Oh, darling puppy, say hello to mum and dad for me! Toodles!**

-

**From: Sarah**

**Please call me back, John! I've called you a hundred times and you're not picking up. Mike says you haven't been home. Please, call me!**

-

**To: Sarah**

**At my parent's. I'm fine. Sorry to worry you.**

-

**From: Sarah**

**Thank God, I was worried about you, wanker! Don't scare me like that. Is everything okay?**

-

**To: Sarah**

**No.**

-

**From: Unknown**

**See you tonight, darling.**

-

**From: Unknown**

**Oops, sorry! That was meant for Sherlock!**

-

A week passed, and John could barely bring himself to return to London. He'd sent the rent to Mike's bank account and everything else could be done over the internet. It was safe to say that he no longer was employed by Holmes Pharmaceuticals, but that was fine for the time being. He'd saved up a bit while working, but he couldn't afford to be wasteful. John would have to start looking for another job, and soon. He still wasn't sure whether he wanted to return to London or stay in Sutton for the foreseeable future. John's parents offered his room for as long as it took to get back on his feet, but John was loath to take advantage of the offer, and so the next week, he began looking on the internet for work. 

John would have to tell Mike that he wouldn't be joining him in the flat he'd be moving to once he began his internship at Bart's. Sarah wouldn't be pleased about not being able to see John as often, but he didn't think he could return to London, at least, not for a while.

In between bouts of deep sleep and restlessness, John reclined listlessly on the couch, flitting between channels with nothing particular in mind. Except Sherlock, he always thought about Sherlock. More often than not, he was wondering if Sherlock was in 221C with Moriarty, wondering if he was touching him, if Sherlock was enjoying the game he played with Moriarty. 

John closed his eyes and curled up on the couch, leaving the telly on a paid programme about some product or another. He didn't care, not about anything. If John had realized that falling for Sherlock would leave him like this, he never would have allowed himself to. It was like rending some part of himself in half, never knowing how vital that it was until it wasn't there anymore. 

On the telly, the programme switched to adverts, and John stared through half opened eyes at a series of clips showing men and women traipsing through woods, hefting rifles through plain desert areas, dressed head to toe in camouflage. The scenes switched through clips of a Humvee wading through mud and soldiers with their occupations hovering in bold, white letters near their head. **Army: Be The Best** , it read at the conclusion.

John sat up at the end of the clip and pulled his knees to his chest. His arms were covered in goose pimples. 

If there was any job that would take him far away from England, far away from Sherlock, it would be an army job. If there was any job where he'd be too busy to remember, it would be an army job. 

John turned off the telly and returned to his room and grabbed his laptop off the desk. 

Within minutes, he was on the army website.

Within hours, he'd made his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE READ!** So, we've finally reached the conclusion of ItG, and I am so very happy to have gotten here. First and foremost, I have to thank my good friend [Crickette](http://misocrickette.tumblr.com) for helping me get this chapter out successfully and being there to bounce ideas off of. You are wonderful! Thank you all for the kudos, comments, and bookmarks, and all of those who have stuck with and defended this story from the very beginning! You know who you are, and I am very thankful to you! Also, to my new readers who came out and supported me, you also have my gratitude. 
> 
> Now, I know you all will be spitting fire at me over this chapter, but please remember: this is not the last story of this series and it WILL have a happy ending. Our boys just have some shit to work out and they're both ridiculously stubborn. So stick with me and I hope to see you all in the next story with amazingly hot smut and all the feels ready! I cannot thank you enough, my friends. I love you all! Come visit me on [tumblr](http://lymphadei.tumblr.com) for updates and all things Sherlockian! Have a great weekend and see you on the other side!
> 
> Video of the army advert John watched [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOhvjBwuix4).


End file.
